


Portrait of a Marriage

by glitteringvoid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Draco Malfoy, Bickering, Consent Issues, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Friends to Something More, Ferrets, H/D Sex Fair 2020, Harry Potter & Ron Weasley Friendship, Harry Potter Can't Cook, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Acephobia, Lack of Communication, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Marriage of Convenience, Minor Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson/Ron Weasley, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Post-Hogwarts, Relationship Discussions, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Social Expectations of Marriage, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Touch-Averse Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:21:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 130,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27434203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteringvoid/pseuds/glitteringvoid
Summary: Harry didn't want to marry Malfoy, he really didn't, but he also does want this house and Malfoy looked so smug and well - now they are married, and the house still doesn't like him, and Malfoy only looks more smug.Draco didn't want to marry Potter, he really didn't, but he also does want this house and he never seems to be capable of escaping Potter anyway, so if he is already doomed to being married off he  might as well decide for himself what he is worth, sign the papers and ignore everything wrong with that plan until physically no longer possible.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 71
Kudos: 332
Collections: 2020 Harry/Draco Sex Fair





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #[61](https://docs.google.com/document/d/12_5f6f0xUXhqtWfMlhXRyA8kDC3KGShN3oa_IOD12DY/edit#).
> 
> I don't even know where to start with this one. This fic got so much bigger than I anticipated, even as I watched the word count steadily climb I never could have imagined _this_. And yet, here we are. 
> 
> I couldn't have done it on my own, of course. It truly does take village, people to discuss the plot with, who graciously gifted me with more ideas and details to add, helped me out of plot difficulties and reassured me when I couldn't look at this fic any longer, certain it's not good enough. It takes people who beta read and offer feedback and, again, reassurance and opinions. It takes a ton of people, and I cannot thank you all enough for listening to my increasingly frantic muttering about this fic, for your support in whatever scope you could give it. 
> 
> Finally, thank you to the _incredibly_ patient mods, pushing my deadline back again and again, granting me as much time as humanly possible. Thank you, for not giving up on me in exasperation and allowing me as much time as you did.

“Yes, yes, it’s _hilarious_ ; now would you stop laughing and help me?” Harry should have known better than asking Ron for advice, he has been known to laugh more than he solves when Harry tells him about Grimmaulds newest … quirk.

In all honesty, he probably should have called Hermione. She has been reading up on house magic and pretentious pure blood family curses — all for exactly this kind of situation. But calling Hermione would have meant admitting it’s getting worse and worse, and that his own house is still dead-set on throwing him out. Harry wanted to avoid the ‘I told you so’, the disappointed lecture when she forces him to confess that no, he didn’t look into any of the rituals she sent him. They are all elitist crap anyway, nothing a sane person could ever come up with and always needing at least one litre of pure blood blood (pure blood? Blood of a pure blood? Harry is sure those old bastards are cackling in their graves over his confusion, they must have done this on purpose) and some hair, too, for good measure.

Harry vetoed any rituals on principle. For one, because Hermione can’t be absolutely sure they are actually going to work, with the specific spells woven into Grimmauld or even just in general. It would be naive to blindly trust what such a stuck up bunch decided to publicly share. But Hermione weeded out those who obviously end with the caster losing anything from a limb to his life (torture doesn’t seem to have been very creative, most traps cost people their right arm, the _only right way_ to wield a wand and, thereby, magic) and Ron sorted out another few that weren’t openly malicious but that are so shrouded in whispers that it’s suspicious. Chances are good the remaining rituals might not only not kill him, but could even give him his home back.

Still, Harry spent all his life defying what self-important people want him to be, and he has no intentions of bowing his head to some old crook who wouldn’t spit on Hermione if she burned. Harry would much rather they find a way around these archaic rules and make them seethe.

However, with the rituals out, there is nothing Harry can do to convince Grimmauld to accept him as the new Lord Black. Which would be fine, it’s not like Harry _wants_ the title, but it seems that the title is a requirement to live here. Only the best for the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, best being narrowly defined as inbred and rich. If it wasn’t for Sirius and how much this house meant to him (aside from his hatred for it, their relationship was a complicated thing Harry regrets not asking more about) Harry would have simply let it to rot. Adapt or die, just like Darwin said (a reference Harry solely dug out to antagonise the house, he isn’t above rubbing their Muggle predicted end under their haughty noses).

Harry’s stomach grumbles. It’s a rude reminder of the less than glorious reality that defying social expectations brings with it; it’s not the route to take when you are looking for a comfortable life. Harry rather thought he had deserved some comfort, after fighting all the time and literally _dying_ to save the world from its would-be conqueror and dark ruler. Neither the press nor his house agree with him there, both weirdly encouraging each other to make Harry’s life a living hell. There is nothing the _Prophet_ likes better than a new failure of habitation they can report on, and Grimmauld delights in delivering the newspaper first thing in the morning, regardless of Harry not having a subscription. Hermione calls it fascinating, Ron begrudgingly admires their dedication, and Harry simply calls it an uninspired act of petulance and sets every single copy he gets aflame.

“A little hungry there, mate?” Ron is still grinning, but at least he now has the decency to attempt and hide his amusement. Harry glares at him.

“You would be, too, if you hadn’t eaten all day because you can’t open the pantry or any of the cabinets in your kitchen.” Harry’s stomach grumbles again, a wonderfully dramatic emphasis on his looming starvation.

Ron sobers as he hears that; he takes after Molly in his recently developed fussing over his friends' needs. Harry would mind more, feels that he should, really, but Ron’s cooking is far better than take away and eating with his friends is far more pleasurable than eating alone. Harry feels only slightly guilty for inviting himself over for dinner again. They probably expected him to, anyway. There is a silent agreement between them; they don’t voice their concerns about Harry and Harry let’s them check up on him in far smaller intervals than strictly necessary.

"That's unacceptable, I thought it would have been an hour at most! Look at you, you look like you'd keel over when you don't eat for a day, all scrawny." Harry almost protests that. What can he say, it's a sensitive topic for him. But seeing Ron so indignant is kind of touching and — Harry needs to remember that — the reaction he hoped for. "Wait a moment and try not to get locked into the cellar again, we'll be right over with some food for you."

And then Ron is gone.

Well, that wasn't _quite_ the plan, Harry rather wanted to get out of Grimmauld today. He already had more than he can handle without snapping, the ever-present air of self-satisfaction suffocating and itching. How one is supposed to recover from a war in this environment is a mystery to him. It feels like Harry is still fighting, only the foe is new.

But then, it's not like he has much else to do anyway. After deciding not to join the Aurors several months into the training (to the outrage of many avid Prophet readers, Harry greatly enjoyed stirring that particular discussion) he is left drifting aimlessly through this miserable house, waiting for a stroke of genius to tell him what to do with his life, now that it finally is his. He might as well stick to what he knows and fight.

"Harry, Ron told me Grimmauld ate all your food?" Hermione has this particular talent to make everything she says sound at once worried and accusing, conveying her disappointment in a very simple yet thorough manner. "Ron will be right through with the food, he's looking for the Good Plates."

Hermione grimaces and Harry gets the distinction impression they had an argument about this before she left. His best friends quickly fell into a comfortable domesticity that is in turn heart-warming and hilarious. This is one of the hilarious moments, Hermione looking like she tasted something sour and the image of Ron muttering about _dignity_ and _family traditions_ as he roots through the cabinets. To this day, Harry doesn't understand what is deemed important enough to get out the Good Plates, but he uses them often enough that Petunia would get a heart-attack, her own plates safely stored in a display cabinet, never to be touched.

"When did we all grow up, Harry?" It would be an unsettling question, were it not for the dazed bewilderment caused by, Harry assumes, Ron's new found investment in bowls and trays. As it is, Hermione just laughs slightly, shakes her head in fondness, orders Harry to set the table and breezes past him, on to examine the locked doors of his kitchen.

This is exactly what Harry hoped to avoid; yet another stand-off between Hermione and Grimmauld. But Hermione is on a mission now and Harry isn't crazy enough to try and stop her. All he can do is stay, pray that Ron arrives soon with the food and fancy plates, and do as Hermione said. It's not too bad, really.

* * *

"For the last time, I am not going to marry just so I can keep living in a judgemental house!" Harry might not have grown out of his temper as much as he likes to think. At least it usually hits intrusive reporters who deserve it or Hermione, who barely takes a second to look unimpressed before going back to her notes and references, trying to intimidate Harry into compliance with terms longer than his own name. It works scarily often, but Harry already made his mind up on this one.

"Famous last words, man. You are so going to marry Malfoy." Ron nods wisely as he drinks, immediately spluttering and choking on it. Good, next time he'll think twice about saying something horrible like that.

Watching Ron gasp for air and Hermione sit next to him completely unmoved, Harry thinks he really ought to question his choice in friends. Better friends would find a way to endear him to Grimmauld without Malfoy involved.

"Why does it have to be Malfoy anyway?" Harry is pouting, he knows, but how would _you_ react if you were told you have to marry your nemesis because of this archaic rule an old, creepy, pasty white bloke wrote?

Hermione doesn't dignify him with an answer, glancing up to glare at him before pulling a heavy book out of her bag. There are papers with notes neatly jotted down sticking out everywhere, coloured and referencing ever more books to consider and connect, anything that might help Harry even the tiniest bit marked and colour coded.

Harry remembers now, _this_ is why they are his friends, because they are loyal and supportive and bring food and books when he needs them (even if it's all a set-up so they can tell him he's a moron and that it's high time he accepts his fate).

"Well, would you rather marry his mum? Woo her away from old Lucius and become Malfoy's step-dad?" There are — so many appalling things in that short sentence that for one moment, Harry genuinely wishes Ron was still choking.

Ron, smug and fearless, drinks again. No choking this time, which only makes him look more smug. Harry sticks his tongue out at him, because he is mature like that. Ron laughs and cuts a grimace right back, because he has six siblings and knows the drill, and because, out of the three of them, Hermione is the only one who could pass as mature and responsible. Well, Harry refuses to let Ron win. The game is on, there are more important things than composure.

Harry twists his face into a grimace and yes, alright, Ron's is better but what about —

"Boys, please, attention back to me." Harry has no idea how long they made ridiculous faces (clearly he was winning) when Hermione interrupts them. She cleared up her papers, all neatly stacked and the books closed. She has come to her final judgement, and Harry better listen to her.

"You have to marry Draco Malfoy." No way. Harry _refuses_ , he protests the very idea — "It's the only possible option, Harry. You want to keep this house and make it into something Sirius would have liked, which you won't be able to do if you can't even _live_ here in it's current state. Thus, you need someone with Black-Family genes, someone Grimmauld recognises as worthy, to marry you and in turn make _you_ worthy. The only one eligible who fulfils all these criteria is Draco Malfoy. Case closed."

And it is, marry Malfoy or let down Sirius.

"What do want me to do then, if it's that simple? Shall I just say 'Draco Malfoy, will you marry me?' and then he can —" The floo flares to life in green flames and smoke, drawing everyone's attention and presenting — Draco Malfoy.

Harry hates this house.

Malfoy looks around, stepping elegantly out of the floo and dusting sooth off his clothes, sneering at the remains of their dinner and frowning at the general state of the living room. The only thing that betrays his surprise and indicates that he didn't plan on being here are his wide eyes and the fact that he didn't insult them yet. Apparently Harry can summon Malfoy; just the skill he always wanted to have.

Malfoy's eyes land on Harry and with a sinking dread Harry realises that it's not inconvenient timing that brought him here _now_ , but rather a treacherous miracle that results in Malfoy knowing exactly what it is they were talking about, what brought him here.

Seriously, Harry _hates_ this house.

"Why Potter, I never knew." Malfoy smiles like a fat, lazy Cheshire cat and Harry wants to punch him. "I'm flattered, of course, but I'm sure you'll understand that I have to consider this very generous offer a little more before I can give you an answer."

Oh Harry could strangle him, so very pleased with himself and the power he holds in his greedy little hands. Malfoy is lucky Harry is still in shock or his perfect hair would look decidedly more ruffled by now.

"What's there to consider? We hate you, you hate us — just say no." Ron, always the first to stand up against something unfair. Harry has seldom been this grateful for it.

Unfortunately, Malfoy doesn't even look at Ron, merely hums in consideration, eyes still holding Harry's. What is _happening_?

"There was always an undeniable bond between us, I'll admit, but _marriage_ , Potter? Curious, I didn't think you would want —" That finally sparks Harry out of his stupor. Enough is enough. Harry doesn't _want_ any of this.

"I _don't_! Nothing would be worse than marrying you and I didn't even ask you, so you can leave now." Harry has the feeling he just made a big mistake. Malfoy narrows his eyes at him, something hard falling over his face that wasn't there a moment before. Well, Harry won't be cowed just because Malfoy knows how to look soulless.

"Too bad I'm here then, when you so hate me. Even worse for you, you addressed me by name and I heard your proposal, which means it's valid in eyes of the law." A quick glance at Hermione confirms that yes, the bastard is right. "If you could loath me in silence, I have a _very important_ decision to make."

"Hilarious, Malfoy. We are all marvelling at your brilliant sense of humour. Now get out of my house." Again, the wrong thing to say, Harry is absolutely sure. But snapping at Malfoy is an ingrained reflex and the git practically asked for it anyway. Was Harry supposed to just … not?

What's more important than validating Malfoy's need for attention, Harry _does not want to marry him_. It's best to stomp the whole thing down before Malfoy — or worse, _Grimmauld_ — gets any ideas about enforcement of vows. So you see, Harry _had_ to say something.

"I made my decision, Potter. I think you will be ecstatic." Somehow, Harry doubts that; it's likely because of the evil smirking and gleeful anticipation. Like a comic book villain, full of himself and monologuing in front of his involuntary audience. "Despite your sudden change in tone, which I don't appreciate, I will grant you your request."

No.

He _can't._ It's simply impossible that Malfoy _actually_ said what Harry _thinks_ he said.

It's this convoluted language, designed purely to mock and confuse. Malfoy insulted him, that's more likely than — no, Harry isn't even going to think it.

Back to the language that makes Malfoy feel all smart and better than everyone else. Which he _isn't_ , Harry should remind him of that.

"What?" Way to show him Harry is clever too, really proved his point there. Harry would like a second try, please. Better yet, if we are already turning back time, could someone stop him from proposing to Draco sodding Malfoy?

Malfoy sneers, like he expected nothing else but is still disappointed. Haughty arse, Harry can see why Grimmauld is so eager to house him. Maybe that wouldn't be too bad, maybe it would never let Malfoy out again and everyone else would get some peace for once.

Except for Harry, of course, trapped in here with them.

“You asked me to marry you, remember? And I will.” Malfoy smiles at him with far too many teeth, a cruel twist to an already unpleasant face. Harry can only stare in horror. “It’s really not that complicated a concept, Potter. Do you need me to draw you a map?”

“You _can’t_.” Yes, Harry is still hung up on that. He has absolutely no capacity to find a witty retort. At least Malfoy cannot possibly be more smug.

“I think you will find that I _can._ ” Malfoy is loosing his patience, quickly at that, and Harry feels like he is slowly gaining ground. “Why, pray tell, do you suffer the delusion that I couldn’t?”

“Because —” Harry has nothing. Not _one_ reason. Well, he has a thousand and one reason, but none of them that would hold up if you lack a basic understanding for human emotions and decency which, clearly, Malfoy does indeed lack. That much for gaining ground. “Because that wasn’t a real proposal! I didn’t mean it, I … I proposed with deceitful intentions! That means it can’t be taken seriously, doesn't it?”

 _Surely_ it must! Because if it doesn’t, well, Harry will have to fake his death and move to some remote village where they have neither magic nor Internet, just to be safe.

“Don’t worry about that, Potter. Let me enter in this engagement with a show of good will and forgive you for your initial, misguided motivations.”

“ How _gracious_.” Malfoy declines his head, the picture of extinct aristocracy. “The proposal still wasn’t real.”

“Who would have guessed you are such a romantic? But what kind of fiancé would I be if I didn’t satisfy your bleeding heart? How about this: Dearest Harry, love of my life, apple of my eye, light of my mornings and moon of my nights, I will gladly marry you.”

Harry doesn’t even know what to say to that. What are you supposed to say when the slimiest person you know is professing their undying love to you?

Whatever the fitting response would have been — if Harry should have responded in kind and thought of sickling sweet pet names or doubted Malfoy’s ability to love — Malfoy doesn’t give him the chance to decide.

“Right, good thing I’m not marrying you for your intellect,” Malfoy says, the words dripping in disdain. It _hurt_ , despite how Harry doesn't care about Malfoy and —

“What _are_ you marrying him for?” Ron cuts in, as if _that_ is the crucial question here.

What’s more, Ron sounds like he is actually _asking,_ genuinely curious as to why one would possibly want to marry _Harry_. It’s quite offensive, really. Still not the point though, so Harry doesn’t comment. And if he wants to hear what Malfoy has to say, well, his interest is purely academic. You can’t change someone's mind if you don’t understand their logic.

“His good looks, of course.” Malfoy winks at him, the expression so at odds with what Harry expected that he would swear it didn’t actually happen. “Now, I’ll announce the happy news to my family and have the lawyers draw up a contract. I suppose Granger will want to read it before she allows you to sign it?”

Hermione nods, because of course she does, and Malfoy looks at her with something that might, on anyone else, be respect. This is _Malfoy_ though, so he gives them all a fake bright smile and, _finally_ , steps towards the floo.

“Splendid. See you in front of the altar, Potter.” And then he is gone in a whirl of green fire. (Harry notes that he didn’t even need to name his destination, let alone use the powder — he didn’t think Grimmauld would have let him go that easily.)

What just happened?

* * *

“Engaged to Harry Potter? I have to say, I’m a little surprised at this development. From how you portrayed things it seemed that your affections weren’t returned. Did I misunderstand or is there something you were remiss in telling me?” His mother raises her eyebrow at Draco, her smirk delicately hidden behind her tea cup. If you didn't already know it was there, you wouldn't see it at all. Draco _does_ know, though, and it's infuriating.

There is a lot hateful tongues say about Narcissa Malfoy, but none of them can deny that she possess the kind of effortless elegance and poise that others strive for their whole life without ever achieving. It’s a meticulously cultured talent she uses to intimidate, protect and, in no small amount, to her personal amusement. Draco in turns admires and despises his mother’s skill, especially when she uses it to tease him.

“No, mother, you are perfectly aware of the situation.” A little too aware, if Draco had his way, but he never stood a chance at concealing anything from her, let alone his pathetic and stubbornly persistent crush on Potter.

Draco blames his mother for that. She fed him stories about their golden hero (at Draco’s insistence, as she likes to point out) long before Draco learnt that heroes are boring at best but mostly pretentious, holier-than-thou pricks. Draco grew up with stories about Harry Potter as much as he grew up with Pansy, Blaise and Theo, and he considered Potter a friend he simply hadn't met yet. Until he _did_ meet him, and their potential friendship died a slow, agonising death. It was too late at that point though, Draco had developed a weakness for their Golden Boy, and there was nothing he could do about it.

“For reasons I can't fathom, Potter wants to live in Grimmauld Place, which is his by law. Grimmauld, of course, doesn't credit either Sirius' will nor the law, since the law always fancied itself more influential than it is in reality and Walburga disowned Sirius. I would have been very much surprised should his opinion on who is a suitable heir for the House of Black be of any consequence. Potter is desperate enough to marry me to ascertain his own flimsy claim to the property.” Not that Draco is complaining, it would have been far more unsettling had Potter dropped to his knees to profess his unending love.

His mother is silent, scrutinising and judging Draco. She worries about him, he knows she does, but that doesn’t help the feeling of being patronised. A marriage is a good deal, a brilliant chance to elevate their name after the unpleasantries of the war. They made it out remarkably unscathed, but one would have to be stupid to let such a golden opportunity pass. Draco might be many things, few of them flattering, but stupid he is not. Quite the opposite, in fact, he is rather shrewd. Draco won't let Potter go until they are married, that's certain.

“I won’t pretend not to be delighted at the prospect of stepping foot into that house again, it has always been beautiful and I shudder to think of what has become of it …” She trails off, lost in memories.

Draco knows Grimmauld (and to some extent, its inhabitants) is important to his mother. He never quite understood it, not until recently.

Draco spent many a tense afternoon tea at that house, forced to smile and ask for another cup, until what was meant to be a necessary though quick bout of politeness had stretched into an awkward dinner. Family obligations, consistent in their occurrence as well as general horribleness. His father would always complain as soon as they were back home, his bland smile falling the second he stepped out of the floo and straight towards the liquor cabinet. He would demand things like _dignity_ and _decorum_ , as if hatred is any less hateful when it’s delivered with excellent posture instead of heated screeching. But then, Lucius Malfoy didn’t need logical reasoning to feel superior.

His mother was different, the only reason they visited Walburga Black all those years. She spent a great deal of her childhood there, visiting the family and making use of its vast library. She knew the house in better times, before dark shadows shrouded its potential. Watching the house go to ruin hurt her, that much was always obvious, but nowadays Draco knows they went to visit her aunt. Driven mad by grief, his mother claims, voice heavy with pain and a kinship that scares Draco to this day.

What he didn’t understand, wishes sometimes he never figured out, is that his mother saw her own future in Walburga’s fate. In her aunt, his mother had a barely living vision of who she could one day become, twisted by the loss of her family and mind shattered by the pain until nothing remained but blind hatred. She must have found a sombre comfort in being there for Walburga, in proving that things might be a little better if only she has someone generous and kind left to keep her company.

Sometimes Draco wonders, if that is how she felt during the war, her husband broken and her son doomed.

Considering all of this, Grimmauld holds more of a symbolic value than a sentimental one. That makes it even more important. Draco is willing to gamble with many things, but his mother’s sanity is not one of them.

“Rest assured mother, we shall soon restore it to its former glory.” His mother smiles at him, and though it is a brittle thing, Draco is glad to see it.

“I have no doubts about that, my darling. I do, however, worry about your heart.” Of course she does, she never did approve of Draco’s preference to ignore any inconvenient feelings he might or might not have. It’s just like her, to bring it up _now_ , when Draco doesn’t expect it and successfully guilt-tripped himself into giving her all she could possibly want. Well played, mother, well played.

“There is absolutely no reason to worry, I never expected to marry for love. No grand hopes disappointed here.” That’s a lie, but unless his mother read his diary — which Draco suspects but could never confirm; it seems like a grave breach in ethics and privacy, but his mother also always _knows_ things — there is no way she can call him out on it.

Turns out, his mother doesn’t _need_ evidence to be disappointed in his poor deflection. Her scepticism is sufficiently conveyed in her pointed silence.

Draco sighs and pours himself another cup. They will be here a long time, dancing around his nebulous feelings for Potter that Draco staunchly refuses to acknowledge and that his mother can’t seem to let go of.


	2. Chapter 2

Malfoy looks around like he owns the place. Granted, he kind of does, what with the archaic insistence on blood and all, but there is absolutely no need to be a smug prick about it. Except when you are Malfoy, it seems, and being a smug prick is just what you _do_.

Harry can practically _see_ him scheme, pushing around furniture in his mind and replacing everything that was lugged in here in an effort to make it homier with ostentatious, over-priced and soulless equivalents. Grimmauld will be delighted, Harry is sure. At least that means he gets to see Malfoy sweat trying to figure out how to get a couch through the floo (Harry remembers that day, he remembers pushing, pulling and cursing and the couch not moving an inch, stuck and unmovable. He doesn't remember how they finally got it through, but he is sitting on it proudly now and if Malfoy wants to get rid of it he has to throw Harry out right along with it.)

“Those papers look alright to me, Harry,” Ron informs them, rather more dismayed than Harry thought he would be at what constitutes as Good News these days. But then, _Hermione_ had been the one cheerfully reminding them that this is a _good thing, the only possible way_. Ron has been loyal and wary and thus been appointed to check the contract for anything Harry should better not sign. Ron confessed to knowing a lot about that sort of thing, mumbling about big families and there being scandals at least once a month. At the time Harry thought it was nice, that Ron could still surprise him after being friends for so long. Now, Harry isn't as fond of surprises anymore.

Marrying Malfoy, who would have thought Harry would ever be this desperate? It’s not the marriage part Harry has a problem with, that’s the least concerning thing of this whole mess. Harry always wanted to marry. He only thought he would be a little older and marry someone he loved (a woman most likely, too, though he is flexible) but yeah, marriage was always part of the plan.

 _Malfoy_ though, _he_ was not part of the plan. He doesn’t even fit into the vague mould of _partner_ that Harry imagined in his plan, of spouse and friend and someone to raise children with and invite the neighbours over for barbecue. Malfoy is, well, none of these things. Except spouse, or soon to be spouse.

Harry tried to picture their life, when Grimmauld felt gracious and like Harry deserved a reward for allowing the ‘proper heir’ into the house. Then he realised he was basically _dreaming_ about a future with Malfoy and had to spend the rest of the night watching mindless TV to get rid of the images (and because Grimmauld resents the TV; Harry never claimed not to be petty).

(Malfoy didn’t look all bad in that future, is the thing. If he could lose that sneer of his, relax a little and just _not_ _talk_ for a while, yeah, maybe that could — which was the point at which Harry jolted upright and had the urge to brush his teeth and numb his brain.)

“Of course the papers are in order, Weasley. Do I look like some pathetic peasant seeking to steal Potter’s fortune?” Malfoy scrunches his face up into a mask of haughty disgust, and Harry wonders if he practised that.

He probably did, people can’t just express numerous facets of disdain in the curl of a lip without spending hours in front of a mirror. Malfoy must have dedicated years of his childhood learning how to smirk just right, going to his father for approval and getting advice on how to turn it a few notches nastier. It’s a family tradition, Harry is sure, passed on from one generation to the next, Malfoy learning from his father and then teaching their children — no! Mission abort!

“As if you even could,” Harry snaps. Not his best comeback and rather disproportionally harsh, but Harry has to draw the line _somewhere_ , and picturing Malfoy fussing over a child with his eyes and Harry’s hair, well, Harry will have to ask Hermione to perform some very good memory charms.

Malfoy sneers at him, but he doesn’t offer up anything in return, which Harry counts as a win. He grins smugly.

“Right, if you could both sign then please? I do have other things to do than watch you two flirt.” Ron looks like he accidentally bit into a lemon, glancing between them meaningfully enough to convince the blind, as if there was any way Harry could have misunderstood what he meant. Merlin, Harry _wishes_ he didn’t understand that!

Malfoy, either not as horrified by the prospect or better at pretending, rolls his eyes and — who would have expected that — sneers. Really, how the expression isn’t _stuck_ on his face yet is a mystery. “If this is your idea of flirting, Weasley, I feel sorry for Granger.”

“What’s that supposed —” Predictably, Ron grows bright red, puffing his chest out like an angry sparrow, gearing up to deny everything.

Harry has had many chances to watch that particular behaviour over the years, flustered indignation leading to panic-struck defences and increasingly ridiculous explanations to avoid the blatant truth. This is how Ron seeks to hide trivial things, like eating the last piece of cake when Harry knows for a fact that he did, as well as his giant and obvious crush on Hermione. It’s endearing and exasperating and great fun to poke at ever now and again, Harry still hoping his friends will finally realise their love is not actually unrequited. He should probably stop hoping. Unsubtle hints and pushes into the right direction haven’t worked in the last five years, it’s unlikely that’s going to change in the next five. Maybe it’s time for something more provocative, something more drastic.

None of that, however, means that Malfoy gets to mock Ron for his feelings or the lack of actions following them. Malfoy looks like a bad comic villain — _again_ , Harry senses a pattern — leaning close to watch Ron’s reaction in painstaking detail. The only thing missing from the picture is an obnoxiously big moustache for Malfoy to twirl, a hat perhaps — right, saving his best friends and drawing lines; focus Potter!

“Where do I have to sign?” Harry interrupts Ron, cutting him off before he can talk himself into the rage Malfoy so clearly wants. Ron mumbles something and pushes the papers at him, glaring at Malfoy but at least not talking anymore.

Malfoy, arrogant git, looks far too pleased with himself, going as far as to _wink_ at Harry. Blood boiling and clenching the pen too hard (Malfoy raised his eyebrow at that, and Harry is suddenly acutely aware of the plain, old ballpoint, a giveaway from some random firm — Harry felt very gratified in his choice, does again at that look) Harry signs on the line in the most scrawly way he can manage, not breaking eye-contact once and shoving the papers at Malfoy.

Shoves _their marriage certificate_ at Malfoy — maybe Harry should have thought a little more about signing that.

In theory, Harry knew that marrying Malfoy would involve, well, _marrying Malfoy_. But now that he _actually married Malfoy_ — it’s a whole new reality Harry managed to avoid looking at surprisingly well. It's different now that he signed the papers and there is only Malfoy’s signature missing and he _can’t_ be married to that cruel, haughty, dastardly — Malfoy signs with an unnecessarily grand flourish of his own ostentatious feather, probably stolen of some dreadfully rare and valuable bird.

“Congratulations, Mr. Black, you may now kiss your husband,” Ron says, sealing Harry’s doom.

Mr. Black, Harry can’t be sure who of them he meant, now that they both officially adopted the Black name. Not his first choice, giving up the name of his parents, but Harry already feared he would have to take _Malfoy’s_ name, and not only would that twat be horribly smug about it, Harry Malfoy also sounds really bad. After Malfoy refused to take Harry’s name, as was to be expected, and everyone agreed a hyphenated name would be quite the mouthful and defeat the purpose of presenting as a unit to Grimmauld, there was nothing left but Black. All in all, by far the best option. It’s Sirius’ name, after all, though Harry suspects he never wanted it any more than he wanted this house.

If he is honest, terrifyingly honest, Harry has enough of being Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World ™. Maybe he will be happier as Harry Black.

“ _Lord_ Black, Weasley. I’m afraid I have to insist that you show the proper respect.” Right, Harry almost managed to forget about Malfoy (Black now, Harry supposed, Draco Black, but that feels wrong and is bound to get confusing). His chances at happiness dissolve in front of his eyes, crushed under Malfoy's heel.

“Well, _Lord Black_ , you may kiss your husband now.” Malfoy looks pleased with himself for all but a moment, before something else flatters over his face and his eyes land on Harry because — oh, because _Harry_ is the husband about to be kissed.

That is … he would rather avoid that. Hermione confirmed that it would be needed to close the contract, that in fact they would have go so far as to _consummate_ their marriage. Apparently archaic magic is very strict and narrow minded on what kind of _affection_ is entailed in a marriage. Harry managed not to think about the implications of that, about the physicality of Malfoy standing right in front of him, looking at him like he is a particularly revolting kind of cockroach. Married life is going to be _great_.

Well, can’t be helped. But Harry certainly won’t stand here while Malfoy grapples with his distaste. If anything, _Harry_ is the one who has a right to be upset. Not to be conceited or anything, but Harry at least doesn’t look like a ghost, all pale and scrawny and like he would break if someone were to push him, like a frangible marble statue.

An objectively rather handsome marble statue, Harry has to admit. Sure, Malfoy looks like he is about to throw up, like all it takes to make him run for the hills is one well placed sudden noise and he would startle and Apparate as far away as possible, but that doesn’t really change anything, except that it lessens Harry’s urge to punch him. Yes, objectively Harry could do worse in his partner. The smooth blond hair falling onto his shoulders, the wide grey eyes, the pink mouth slightly opened — Harry could get used to that sight, if nothing else.

Before Malfoy can _actually_ hightail out of here, Harry grabs him by the shoulders to pull him in. If he absolutely _has_ to kiss the man for the marriage to be recognised and Grimmauld not to murder him in his sleep, it will at least be on his own terms.

Malfoy is stiff in his grip, shoulders tense and perfect to steer him around with. Harry reels him in, just close enough that he can lean over and plant a kiss on Malfoy’s mouth, eyes tightly shut and desperately pretending this is _not happening_.

Harry lets go as Malfoy jerks back, looking flabbergasted and suspiciously red. Harry doesn’t know if he should feel disgusted that he kissed Malfoy at all or disappointed that he didn’t impress Malfoy. He usually is a much better kisser than this, he swears!

Ron makes a straggled noise somewhere, and just like that the decision is made. Disgust, Harry is disgusted. What was he thinking? He needs to get Malfoy out of here.

Malfoy is easier to move this time, almost pliant from shock (Harry files the feeling away, before he remembers he is disgusted and shoves the file into the deepest, darkest corner of his mind) and Harry pulls him over to the floo with no problems at all.

“Right, lovely of you to step by, I’ll be in contact!” And in a haze of green smoke, Malfoy and his kissable mouth are gone. Harry stares for a moment, unreasonably expecting him to be back right away, but sighs and slumbers against the mantle when nothing happens.

What a mess.

* * *

Potter is watching them like a vulture, a king imperiously observing his servants go about their day of facilitating his life, and if looks could kill Draco has no doubt they would all be dead already. Or in a mysterious coma in the very least, what with the way Potter glowers down on them from his makeshift throne on the kitchen table, clutching his coffee and gulping it down like his life depends on it. Perhaps the caffeine will help with the deadly qualities of his glare? Draco is almost tempted to ask him, if only to make Potter scowl and — hopefully — give him the last push to leave so Draco can oversee and direct with all the focus the task requires (these people are barely more than glorified animals, if Draco doesn’t pay attention he will end up with his clothes in the kitchen and his books in the bathroom, no independent thought to be found in their thick skulls).

The importance of Draco’s being undisturbed is utterly lost on Potter, of course. The only time he so much as moved to say something, was when one of the men wanted to know where _their_ bedroom would be. _Their,_ as in a shared room and — more importantly — bed. Before Potter could have a meltdown over that Draco had long since handled the situation and redirected the man, but since then Potter had watched on in creepily silent murderous rage. Very distracting, but Draco refuses to be intimidated. Grimmauld is his house now, as it always should have been, and Potter better recognise his reign is over.

Potter lost the moment he agreed to marry Draco, the idiot just doesn’t know it yet.

“You did notice I already have a couch, yes?” Potter speaks! Draco _was_ beginning to doubt if he still could. He doesn’t use that marvellous ability to reveal snippets of wisdom though, or even just examples of common sense.

Draco remembers the so-called couch Potter is referring to, a moth-eaten, horrid thing, covered in paisley and faded colours that once must have been vibrant (that one might be a blessing, come to think of it). Draco would sooner claw out his own eyes than ever look at that atrocity again.

Considering how Potter is glaring daggers at him, that might have been his plan all along, the revolting piece of furniture bought only for that exact reason. Draco could almost respect that — what kind of Slytherin would he be if he didn’t appreciate a good scheme when he sees one? But he doubts Potter would think of the required subterfuge, let alone approve of it. No, if Potter wanted him blind he would do the honourable thing and do the deed himself.

Potter would grab an actual dagger (raised by Muggles, it leaves visible traces in his behaviour; anyone else would look up a nasty curse, but Potter has always been more physical than that) and fist a hand into Draco’s hair to hold him still, would lean close enough to breath on his face and — this thought-experiment went a little far. What were they talking about again?

“Unfortunately I did see that abomination, yes. I took the liberty of vanishing it. You are welcome.” If one were picky about these things, Draco ignited it. One has to be scrupulous where bad taste is concerned.

If one even more annoying than just picky about these things, one might point out that Draco didn't actually do it yet. True, the couch is horrid and a safety hazard, but Draco also didn’t know it means quite this much to Potter. He would rather prefer not to start this marriage with an act of warfare, if that is at all possible. Plus, it’s valuable leverage against Potter, Draco’s mercy in this case something that should bring him a few favours. Yes, he really should rethink that one.

“You can’t just vanish my things! That couch was very important to me!” Potter flicks up from his grumpy slouching so fast that the blanket falls off his shoulders, his eyes blazing with a new intensity. Forget what Draco said about glaring daggers, _this_ might murder him for real.

Potter is seriously pissed now, not just vaguely inconvenienced or distantly wishing Draco wasn’t here. Potter’s temper is flaring up, his magic crackling and the air getting heavy — this is the man who killed the Dark — well, you know who. Draco supposes he isn’t a Lord of anything, anymore, not that he ever really was in the first place. Whatever he was, he was powerful, and Potter snipped his fingers and that was that. It is, if Draco is allowed a moment of cowardice, rather intimidating.

Be that as it may, Draco won’t bow down before Potter, never did and will _certainly_ not start now. He just _married_ the man, Potter can’t do anything much worse than that. (What is he going to do, insist they have a honeymoon after all?)

“Given the state it was in, I sincerely doubt you cared much about the couch.” A guess, based on values Draco doesn't think Potter holds. He should have realised sooner. Something flashes over Potter’s face, quick and dangerous, and because Draco is a moron with no self-preservation he doesn't do the reasonable thing — shut up and hope to be spared — but he talks on and makes the situation worse. “It would also have been _our_ couch — you might have known that had you read the contract you signed. I can’t have something as hideous as that associated with my name.” And, because Potter looks like Draco slapped him with a wet fish, he adds: “ _our_ name now, dearest.”

As loath as Draco was to give up his name, it's all worth it to see the sheer and undiluted horror bloom on Potter’s face. Something in Draco is cackling maniacally at the sight.

Does it hurt that Potter hates him that much? Yes. But Draco had years to come to terms with Potter abhorring him on principle and he has gotten good at deriving his entertainment out of it. Besides, his own feelings might be more complicated than blind animosity but no more favourable. Potter is a self-righteous prick, impossible to please and even harder to hold a stimulating conversation with. Thank Merlin Draco didn’t marry Potter for his personality, or he would be sorely disappointed.

Just when Draco thinks Potter finally gathered enough wit to have a response (he used to be faster than that, his snark and objectively good looks are literally the only thing that make him bearable) Potter stands up, wraps the blanket around him like a king would his coat (Draco resents how much Potter forces that king metaphor onto him. He is resolved to see nothing kingly about the prick anymore.) and struts out of the room in icy silence, head held high.

Draco watches in astonishment. That is not like Potter at all, choosing to preserve his dignity and leaving before he can embarrass himself. Draco doesn’t like this development. He doesn’t like not knowing. He’ll have to keep an eye on that. For now Draco has workers to command, and with Potter gone he can finally concentrate on his task.

He doesn't think he will vanish the couch, though.

* * *

Living with Malfoy is, unsurprisingly, worse than the plague. Malfoy is entitled and obnoxious and _everywhere_ , making himself tea in _Harry’s_ kitchen, talking with the snobbish portraits in _Harry’s_ corridors and taking up space with his stupid renovation plans on _Harry’s_ tables. Malfoy claimed the biggest bathroom and the master bedroom (which Harry didn’t want anyway, but this is a matter of principle and Malfoy ought to at least have _asked_ ), he refuses to move to the side when they accidentally pass each other in the corridors — he is just being his unpleasant self, okay?

“I mean, what did you expect, mate?” Ron doesn't even look up from his position on the floor, most of his focus on the roast sizzling in the oven, frowning and poking at it.

Harry sighs. He won’t get anything useful out of Ron right now, not while he is concentrating on the food not doing what it is supposed to do. That’s the downside to your friend developing an interest in cooking, Harry supposes — they start to cook _a lot_.

Ron specifically begun with old family recipes, learning them over many days spent in the kitchen with Molly, cooking together through the grief and loss the war brought upon them. Ron gradually tested his own recipes, exploiting Harry and Hermione as his personal guinea pigs and forcing them to smile at even the most vile concoctions lest they want to destroy his fledging hopes, using their feedback to adjust and perfect every dish before presenting it Saturday Family Dinner.

Harry has to admit though, even his dangerous job as food taster has become far more enjoyable over the months as Ron’s skill shot up to the skies. It’s in his blood, Molly likes to proclaim, talent inherited from her and just in need of some attention and dusting. Harry, who has seen Ron do nothing but cook for days on end so he has something good for her to sample, doesn’t voice his doubts, doesn't mention how much labour Ron puts in to make her smile. It doesn’t feel like his place, like he would cross some invisible line commenting on blood, like an _inner_ inner circle of the family he isn’t privy to. It’s ridiculous and Harry hates it, hates how abruptly that made him feel lonely.

Ginny has absolutely none of his qualms and teases Ron about becoming a kept man, taking care of the flat he shares with Hermione and making sure she eats, sleeps and occasionally even laughs between her hectic studies. Only once did Ginny get far enough in her delivery to comment that he got the short end of the deal, missing out on all the _fun_ things usually involved in these arrangements, the words said with such a shockingly dirty grin that Arthur nearly choked on his food and Molly looked like she wanted to order her youngest to wash her mouth out with soap. Ron for his part got beet-red, stunned into speechlessness and reduced to stammering out that it’s not like that, honestly. It would have been hilarious, were Harry not extremely aware of how tragically true every single accusation and argument is.

“Merlin’s balls — not again!” Ron suddenly jumps up from his watch, cursing loudly as he fishes the roast out of the oven. It smells heavenly, absolutely perfect. Ron glares at it as if the roast personally cancelled Christmas.

Harry has seen this before, Ron obsessed with some ludicrously detailed ideal he wants to achieve and trying time and time again, growing more and more frustrated with each 'imperfect' result. If Harry doesn’t stop him, Ron is going to start the next attempt immediately, frenzied and clumsy, doomed to fail spectacularly. A distraction is in order, and quickly at that.

“I ran into a door frame today,” Harry blurts out before he can properly think that one through. He kind of swore not to tell anyone about that, ever. It works at least, Ron stops his prodding at the perfectly fine roast to stare at him in disbelief, questioning if Harry is _really that_ stupid. Which, _no_ , he isn’t, thank you very much. His house just hates his guts.

“Tell me you didn’t.” Oh how Harry wishes he could. He can’t though, so he stays silent and watches in stoic defiance as Ron’s face slowly goes from amused to horrified. It’s oddly satisfying. “Seriously Harry, _tell me you didn’t_!”

“Grimmauld is now reaching new levels of petulance.” That’s putting it mildly. More accurate would be the description of ‘pissed off poltergeist’, but that reference would be lost on Ron. He never could warm up to muggle categories of magic. “Since Malfoy moved in, he is the new default. I never realised how tiny the bloke is until I hit my head against the kitchen cabinets Grimmauld moved down so Malfoy can reach them without over-exerting his short, dainty arms.”

Ron is having far too much fun, barely bothering to try and hide his laughter behind his giant oven mitts. Is some rightful indignation on his behalf really too much to ask? If Harry wanted to be laughed at, he would have stayed in Grimmauld. Malfoy seems to always be around when Harry makes a fool out of himself, forgetting about the stick up his arse for just long enough to laugh himself stupid.

It’s disturbing, how desperate the house is to please Malfoy, to charm and ensnare and keep him forever. It never went anywhere near the same lengths to impress Harry, that grumpy, old thing. Harry had hoped that would change with their marriage, that Grimmauld would finally see him as worthy of living unencumbered by petty hostility, but either Malfoy isn’t a proper Black heir after all or his own antagonism against Harry urges Grimmauld on. Judging by how Malfoy gets fawned over, it’s most likely the latter.

“That doesn’t explain the door thing, you know.” Curse Ron for always being his most observing when Harry has something to hide. Harry never seems to learn from experiences like this, realising that he should keep quiet on the more embarrassing details only when he already spilt them and everyone is waiting for him to elaborate.

Faced with Ron's blue eyes piercing through him, it seems a lot easier to let him think Harry is finally cracked and doesn’t remember where the doors in his house are than reveal that and he and Malfoy didn’t get over their _childish schoolboy squabbles_ , despite how sure Hermione was they could be mature about this. Ron at least never expected Harry to be responsible and level-headed when it comes to Malfoy, but admitting that they are still no better than the tiny 2nd years they used to be, fighting over who has the best broom (Harry, without a doubt; Malfoy’s might have been newer but there was a _soul_ in Harry’s broom, something besides the cold fortune buying Malfoy a — well-deserved, he grudgingly admits — place on the Quidditch team) and devoting most of their time to getting the other into trouble, well, even _Ron_ would be disappointed.

“I think it’s some twisted form of punishment for not kissing Malfoy's feet?” Yeah, that sounds better than admitting that Harry _accidentally_ spilt Malfoy’s tea after he wrinkled his nose at his coffee. It essentially boils down to same thing, anyway. “Grimmauld gets a little uncomfortable if we aren’t in the same room, cold and draughty and making me trip over uneven ground — never Malfoy, which _reeks_ of favouritism, wasn’t ending this the entire motivation to marry the git? — so we spend a lot of our time loitering in the same room. Malfoy adapts that imperious silence that is supposed to make me feel inferior and constantly drawing those renovation plans of his; mostly it's just annoying. So when I’m being kind and considerate by reminding that he doesn’t need to strain his pretty little head by planning all that because there is no way I’ll allow him to implement any of the changes he sketches, Malfoy inevitably says something ugly, and it’s _me_ ending up with no hot water and moving doors for the rest of the day because _I_ dared to defend myself.”

Now at the very latest Hermione would stop listening to him, telling Harry to grow up and have a _conversation_ with the git, because she doesn't have the time to deal with their long overgrown and completely ridiculous enmity. They might have had that particular talk more often than Harry is willing to confirm, and Harry knows her key arguments better than Hermione herself does by now. Harry understands where she is coming from, he really does, she is busy studying pretty much everything so she can take up the long and painstaking task of saving the world from itself (much more difficult and less appreciated than just taking out _one_ guy and being lucky enough to have the rest collapse without his leadership) but Harry doesn’t want rational solutions to self-made problems.

Ron, though, _Ron_ lights up like someone told him the Chudley Cannons won the World Cup. Harry immediately feels less desolate. Ron grew up with the twins as his brothers and can hold his own as well as can be expected, there is no one Harry would have rather on his side in a war against his petty house and even more petty (… husband? Ew.) _schoolyard nemesis_.

“I know just the right thing.” Ron is already scheming, carelessly swiping off everything on the table (Hermione will have an aneurysm if she gets back before they cleaned that) to use the space for the much more worthwhile task of planning their first attack.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry wakes to a blood curling scream. For one second, he is back in that tent, back in the woods and on the run. He is back to the uncertainty and the fear hanging palpable in the air, though none of them acknowledged it. He is back to the middle of the war, to knowing that people are dying on a daily basis while he is _camping_ , looking and searching and finding absolutely _nothing_.

Then he hits his head against a helpfully skewed bedpost, and Harry remembers.

He remembers that he killed the bastard and that things are steadily looking up. He remembers that his friends and family are safe, that they are _all_ safe, and that they are peacefully sleeping. He remembers that his house hates him and that he woke to someone actually screaming right now and not just a nightmare.

He remembers that Ron had a brilliant idea and that they spent yesterday in the pet shop, discussing fur patterns and the required level of sharpness in teeth and claws.

Harry doesn’t even mind that Grimmauld tried to kill him anymore.

Another scream. Harry smothers a snicker in his pillow. Then he gets up and sneaks over to Malfoy's room. There is no way he is going to miss this, not if old Tom himself came back from the dead.

The door is surprisingly easy to open (Grimmauld conveying this is the ideal moment for Harry to swoop in and save the git?) and Harry can hear Malfoy’s hysterically screeched whispers. Harry wishes he had thought to bring something to record this, asked Ron for the right charm, perhaps. Too late now, he will have to take in every detail to remember later.

The sight that greets Harry is … not what he expected. Rather scarring too, to be quite frank.

Malfoy is — what is Malfoy _wearing_?

Malfoy stands on the bed, granting Harry perfect view of his … ensemble? Harry’s sure there are fancy words for it, for the way it gently falls around him while also showing off his figure obscenely. The material looks so _soft,_ so smooth and comfortable and Harry wants to _touch_ , wants to see if the fabric feels as divine as it looks, if the green is as deep up close as it seems from afar. The entire picture is achingly beautiful, something tailored and elegant about the way the jacket is cut, hues of green swirling and creating pictures Harry can’t make out, calling to him, beckoning him closer, tempting him to — “Potter!”

Harry feels like someone dunked a bucket of ice water over him. Malfoy. Harry just ogled _Malfoy._ He might have to rip his eyes out after this.

How did this _happen_? He came in here to laugh at Malfoy's face, instead he stood rooted to the ground and admired Malfoy’s _figure_ , how slender and delicate he is, how pale his skin, like porcelain, begging for kisses to be trailed — Malfoy _squeaks_. Thank Merlin — how did Harry go there _again_?

Right, focus on the important things, Potter.

Something moves on the bed, moving towards Malfoy with astonishing speed, and Malfoy _jumps._ He probably only meant to get away, but in effect he ends up stumbling right into Harry’s arms, flailing widely and looking horrified.

Harry still has no idea what is going on, how he came to practically _cradle_ Malfoy in his arms or why he hasn’t let go yet. That one he can safely blame on Malfoy though, clinging to him with not even his feet on the ground, like a spooked koala.

For his part, Harry doesn’t actually mind holding Malfoy up, wrapped around him as he is, fitting quite neatly into Harry’s arms. Wait, no! This is _bad_! This is _Malfoy_ , the smug prick who sneers at Harry’s friends and made his life miserable since the first day they met.

The facts Harry knows about Malfoy and the warm body pressed against him make for a jarring contrast and Harry stumbles back, making Malfoy squawk again at the sudden movement.

“What is that thing in my bed, Potter,” Malfoy whispers into his ear, as if afraid someone else might hear. It’s intimate, so very painfully intimate, standing close together in the dark, feeling Malfoy’s breath on his neck and his heart beating against his chest, the _trust_ in Malfoy’s voice, no scorn or derision.

Harry almost feels bad for ruining that moment, waits perhaps a little long before he answers. What can he say, it’s nice just being able to stand in his house with his husband without wishing he could set them both on fire. (No, not fire, never fire. Not after the Room of Requirement, not after seeing the naked fear in Malfoy’s face, the flames dancing around them.)

“That would be our ferret.” Harry tried to keep his voice even, delivers at least the punch line correctly after everything else already went sideways. He suspects he sounds rather breathless, though, and he holds on to Malfoy a little tighter. (Just in case he jumps again, just for security.)

Malfoy makes a spluttering sound, not knowing what to say but unable to say nothing at all.

Well, Harry expected somewhat … more. Shouting, maybe, a panicked refusal to stay in the house one second longer, a baleful look over dredged up childhood memories. This is most disappointing. (Yes, disappointing, not pleasant to hold Malfoy like this, disappointing.)

“You brought a _ferret_ into my house?” Malfoy visibly tries to remain calm and keep his composure, but that is quite useless now after the little scene Harry was regrettably too preoccupied to enjoy because of these ridiculous pyjamas Malfoy thought appropriate — _anyway_ , what was he saying again? Right, Malfoy can’t fool him anymore. He’s rattled, enough to still not let go of Harry, leaning back just as far as necessary to glare at him. Harry should really set him down now, this is getting awkward.

Malfoy flails a little as Harry pulls his hands back abruptly, but he is surprisingly strong and doesn’t immediately fall onto his arse (pity, Harry could have teased him forever over that) latching on to Harry of his own accord. Which is unexpected, even considering the deathly threat of the dangerous ferret. Then Malfoy seems to remember himself and he gingerly climbs down, setting his feet back on the floor as if waiting for it to snap at him. Of course that doesn’t happen, not to precious pure-blood feet.

Come to think of it, Harry is a little surprised that _he_ hasn’t been swallowed whole yet. He confessed to the crime after all, usually it takes less to anger Grimmauld and the consequences are a lot worse than a small bump against his head. Not that he’s going to complain; perhaps the plan is finally starting to work.

Safely landed on his own feet, Malfoy immediately runs to hide behind Harry, pressing close against his back and peeking over his shoulder. Harry doesn’t ask if he has to stand on his tiptoes to accomplish that, he knows Malfoy does.

“Technically, _Ron_ brought a ferret into _my_ house,” Harry answers at Malfoy’s — rather excessive — poking into his side after he was quiet for too long.

It’s the truth, it was Ron who carried the ferret over the door step of _Harry’s_ house — this needs to be stressed again, because he didn’t miss how Malfoy claimed it for his own and this is a perfect opportunity to be spiteful.

Malfoy is not satisfied with that answer, jabbing his bony finger between Harry’s ribs again. Harry _doesn’t_ yelp, he suffers in stoic silence. Anything else would be embarrassing.

“Fine, calm down, Malfoy. Ron found a stray, alright? The poor thing was all drenched and shivering and Ron couldn’t just walk past, could he? If Hermione wasn’t allergic he would have kept it at their place, but what else was he supposed to do?” All of this, except Ron’s weakness for strays, is a lie, delivered in the most innocently annoyed tone Harry can manage.

Malfoy is silent, whether he believes Harry or looks for something to pull to make the lie unravel, and now they both just stand there, closer together than they ever were, eyes scanning the room for signs of The Ferret.

Something moves on the bed. Malfoy whimpers. Harry laughs. This is _brilliant_. He had some doubts for a moment there, but things are developing nicely.

“Listen here, Potter. You will take that infernal creature out of my bed, give the ferret back to its Weasel and then we will sit down and have a serious talk about animals in the house.” Malfoy doesn’t sound half as self-assured as the words themselves are, reaching for a false bravado he doesn’t possess.

Even if Malfoy could sound as arrogant and assertive as he wants, Harry still would not do any of these things. Malfoy struts through the house like he owns it, acting like Harry is nothing but a particularly unpleasant, though temporary, house guest, and it’s only a matter of time before he leaves and Malfoy can do all the fancy remodelling that he wants. And there is nothing Harry can do about it if he doesn't want Grimmauld to enact revenge for Malfoy’s wounded pride. _This_ , making Malfoy scream like the first person dumb enough to leave the house in a horror movie, this he can do.

It will make Malfoy even worse and Grimmauld even more protective, but Harry is no doormat and he refuses to be walked over into their perfect little fantasy. Harry lives here, too, and it’s time Malfoy acknowledges that.

“I don’t think I will, Malfoy. Sleep well.” Harry smirks at him, his wish ominously accompanied by another rustle of the bedsheets being moved. He leaves Malfoy there, pats him on the head because Malfoy’s hair looks soft and rumpled and the late hour makes Harry stupid, and leaves.

This was satisfying.

* * *

“Draco, darling, there is a ferret gnawing on the leg of your table.” Pansy remains remarkably composed, primly setting down her tea cup as she stares at odious bugger number — Draco glances up from his plans to get a good look at ferret number – three, Draco is pretty sure that's the third one, who is indeed leaving teeth indents on Potter’s cheap dreck table.

“Astute observation; it’s a little pest that one, the worst out of the bunch in terms of eating furniture.” Only Potter’s furniture, Draco made sure they couldn’t touch anything actually valuable, let alone priceless heirlooms.

He might not be able to stop Potter from bringing in more and more of them ( _they are social creatures, Malfoy, it would be cruel to hold them alone_ ) and he might not be able to keep them confined to only one room (they wriggle through everything, as if there are absolutely no bones in their bodies; Draco suspected more than once that they have magic reserves that they use to Apparate around the house, but some thorough — and secretive, no need to let Potter know he even acknowledges their presence — testing proved them to be ordinary and with no magic whatsoever) but he draws the line at sacrificing Lysandra Black’s green winged armchair (frankly, the thing is quite hideous and Draco looks forward to leaving it to rot in some long forgotten vault as soon as he starts with his renovations; don’t tell Potter).

“When exactly did you plan on telling me you now keep ferrets?” Draco bristles at the accusation, discarding his map again to tell Pansy that she is wrong and he most certainly does _not_ own these ferrets, that they will be gone again as soon as Potter grows tired of his distaste. But Pansy isn’t looking at him, still wrapped up in watching the foul creature manically wind around the table.

“I didn’t, since they will be of no permanence, just Potter’s latest clever idea repeated until irrelevance.” Pansy doesn’t even react. Draco sighs, there is no talking to her now. “Go on then, I know you want to.”

Pansy doesn’t bother asking if he is sure, if they are safe and vaccinated and if they are tame at all, she goes straight ahead to pick the squirming thing up. It’s always odd, realising how much Pansy loves animals. It doesn’t fit their proud heritage of dignity and superiority at all. Not that that ever stopped her from doing as she pleases, sneaking in books on magical creatures and refusing to wear anything with fur (she cites an allergy, which is a weak excuse but miraculously never provoked any further questions. She would skin alive anyone, other than her parents, for daring to suggest she wears fur, because it’s horrifying and heartbreaking and let’s see how _you_ like it). The only saving grace for the perfect daughter and haughty pure-blood she presents to the world, is the fact that it’s not all animals, just the intelligent ones. Pansy’s impatience and expectations for people apply to animals as well, which doesn’t rule out as many of them as Draco would have thought. Ferrets, apparently, qualify as worthy of her attention.

Draco watches Pansy play with the most recent of Potter’s alleged strays and wonders what he would say if he could see them now, if he would finally stop bringing these horrid things if he saw Pansy’s open delight. It’s no mystery why Potter seeks to torment him, he is not half as good a liar as he likes to think and he could never resist a chance to make Draco’s life miserable. Bringing in animals that not only hold a ton of bad memories for Draco but also like to bite at anything they can reach — they ruined a pair of his favourite shoes before Draco found a repellent charm that worked against them – is not exactly Potter’s usual method, but Weasley is far too gleeful with every furry bundle he brings over not to be involved. Draco is sure they are congratulating themselves on their genius each time a ferret sneaks up on him and almost startles him into a heart-attack.

Her first burst of curiosity stilled, Pansy draws up from where she was perched on the floor, taking the ferret with her to settle it in her lap as she sits back down next to Draco. At least she is considerate and keeps it busy chasing her fingers and not letting it crawl over to Draco; he can tolerate a lot but _that_ would go a little too far. She furthermore is kind enough not to mention keeping Draco safe from his irrational fear of the tiny bundle, and Draco can almost forget about the ferret in her lap over the sudden swell of affection for his friend. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve Pansy.

“Potter is still making your life hell, I take it? What is the proper response to being forced into cohabitation with ferrets?” Pansy thinks for a moment, her fingers carding through the fur, now more of an afterthought than an active petting. “Oh I know, penguins!”

That … is quite the leap. Draco won’t pretend he understands the thought process here — he doesn’t understand how Pansy thinks half of the time, if he is honest — but it’s so ridiculous and unexpected, that Draco breaks out laughing. It’s Pansy’s mischievous smirk, the idea of Potter’s befuddlement at being presented with a penguin and the tension that hasn’t left Draco since the first moment that he became aware of the beasts in his house — it all builds up to the wave of relief clashing over him in form of some dearly needed laughter. It’s been too long since he laughed like this, half frantic and befuddled as it is.

“How is that going to make anything better at all?” As far as Draco is aware, penguins literally _never_ made a situation better, the weird muggle birds that can’t even fly. Pansy, however, looks as scandalised as if Draco just insulted her mother’s much praised and wildly admired rose garden.

“If you have to ask, you don’t deserve them.” And with a haughty sniff Pansy goes back to cooing at the ferret. Great, Draco was replaced by the furry little bugger. “What’s _your_ plan then? I hope it’s not letting Potter walk all over you while you admire the view?”

Draco wishes she would have kept playing with the ferret. He really doesn’t need her commenting on his — admittedly pathetic — crush any more than he needs his mother’s input on the matter. The only thing worse is when he comes home to find them both sitting in his mother's parlour, heads bend together over conspirator whispers and tea. Draco never knows what to expect then, only that it would be safest for him to find a convenient excuse and make a run for it while he still can.

“Of course not, that would be rather stupid.” Draco is floundering, and Pansy knows it, raising her eyebrow at him from where she presses her face onto the ferrets head. It could almost be acceptable, docile and securely held in Pansy’s hands, absorbing her affection.

“Odd, that never stopped him before,” Pansy mutters to her ferret, acting like she doesn't mean for Draco to hear. Draco feels that gives him the right to pretend he really _didn’t_ hear her and not find anything witty to say in defence of his dignity. There is nothing to say anyway; she is tragically right.

“I don’t have to do anything in retaliation, Grimmauld is very loyal,” he says instead, which smoothly evades her question and gives her something new to think about.

Draco has years of experience in avoiding Pansy’s inquisitive judgement, he knows how to play the game. Well, there is no _avoiding_ it, if the years have taught him anything it’s _that._ The only thing running away does is let it accumulate to the odd prolonged session of lecture on what exactly Draco is doing wrong in excruciation detail.

Pansy’s eyes light up at the idea of letting Grimmauld do all the dirty work on the Potter front, the ferret once again second place as she throws him a devilish smirk. It’s a simple and elegant solution that Pansy can’t help but applaud; prime Slytherin sneakiness, if he says so himself.

“Draco, are you _suborning your house_ into bullying Potter until he leaves?” Yes, that’s admiration in her voice, plain as day if you listen close enough, and Draco preens under her approval.

“My dearest Pansy, I am not instigating anything, my conscience is entirely clear.” And it is, Draco is losing no sleep over Potter’s complicated life in this house.

Potter is an arse, constantly seeking to make Draco miserable so that he leaves and Potter can legally demand Grimmauld after their divorce, Draco has no plans of making it this easy for him. Potter will have to try harder if he wants to get rid of Draco. In the meantime, can anyone blame him for using the most obvious weapon at his disposal to defend himself?

“Of course it is. You always had a weird way of flirting, you know that?” Draco almost chokes on his tea at the accusation, spluttering and coughing. He should have expected this, he really should have; Pansy loves to bring up her opinions when he is least prepared for it, always causing Draco to embarrass himself.

Pansy doesn’t possess enough decency to do the polite thing and pretend she didn’t do it on purpose, laughing at him and once again playing with the ferret. How she isn’t tired of the creature yet is beyond him, but he finds himself hoping — a little bit — that it actually does manage to nip her fingers. Not only would it serve her right, but he also wouldn’t have to compete with _that._

Pansy makes to say something else, equally insidious, when the ferret starts wildly jumping, leaping and curling and looking like it has gone crazy. It’s quite scary, would be to anyone, and Draco is out of the couch and as far away as he can in a matter of seconds. Merlin knows what’s wrong with it, and he doesn’t need the rabid thing to bite him.

Pansy has no concerns at all, watching the ferret twist and jump with a delighted laugh. Completely mad, the both of them.

“Relax Draco, it’s an expression of joy, he won’t harm you.” He? Oh, the demonic possessed bundle of fur, right. Well, unless _he_ stops his _expression of joy_ , Draco is more than content to remain here, at a safe distance and close to the nearest escape route.

Draco watches in horrified fascination as the ferret jumps and jumps with the elegance of a drunk elf, never quite leaving Pansy, who can’t take her eyes off him. It’s only after the ferret finally tired himself out and Pansy pats the seat next to her insistently, that Draco returns to the couch, still wary and keeping more distance than before.

“It’s called the weasel war dance, there is absolutely nothing to fear.” Pansy is exasperated, the way she always is when Draco doesn’t agree with her on the brilliancy of animals, and she shoves an elbow into his side when all he answers with is a vaguely understanding hum. “Why do you even own ferrets when you are so resistant to learning how to care for them?”

“ _Potter_ owns them, I want nothing to do with them! They are pure evil, no matter what you say. One of them snug into my closet and pissed on all my clothes, Pansy! It smelled appalling for ages!” Draco remembers that particular find, odious bastard number one proudly sitting in its mess and every single thing Draco owned drenched in the stench. “I made Potter promise to get them descented, that is apparently the only way to prevent it from happening again. It also gets rid of the constant musty scent clinging to them.”

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, you will do no such thing!” Pansy clutches the ferret protectively against her chest, drawing herself up into her furious-animal-right-activist persona and glaring at Draco as if he proposed to kill every ferret and bath in their blood. “What you are suggesting there is not only cruel and abominable, but a despicable act of human impudence, woefully uninformed and repugnant.”

Draco didn’t think it was all that bad and, frankly, if it meant he wouldn’t have to buy a completely new wardrobe _again_ , he is quite willing to have these twisty things put under and operated on. He knows better than to tell Pansy of his resolve though, he never should have mentioned it in the first place. Pansy can go from zero to hundred in no time at all, and it’s unpredictable what will set her off and what she will let slide. Some things though, she won’t tolerate under any any circumstances. Cosmetic mutilation is one of them.

“First of all, you are completely incompetent and in no way qualified to make that decision. You are mildly inconvenienced by a natural defence mechanism to a new living space and acting like a brat about it. I know for a fact that the smell dissipated after a few moments, you should be grateful Potter didn’t get you a skunk.” Pansy stops, to breathe for a next round of scolding and to throw him a smirk (a very angry variation of it) at the idea of settling him with a _skunk_. Draco doesn’t move an inch, he is not out of danger yet.

“Second, if you absolutely _have_ to be a barbaric monster to make your life more comfortable, you can get the ferrets sprayed or neutered. Since the smell is hormone related, that is the only true way to reduce it. It also helps in cases of aggression and with the urge to mark their territory — in other words, your clothes will be safe. As will your face, because Merlin help me but if you touch these innocent, beautiful creatures —” That’s quite enough, threats to his person usually mean Pansy is done with her lecture.

Not that she is _wrong_ , she rarely is. And if it's indeed true that the operation would do nothing at all against the things that bother Draco the most, well, he doesn’t see the point in it. He is also sufficiently shamed and scared, he won’t go anywhere near these things if it means courting Pansy’s wrath again. Besides, he doesn’t like seeing her upset, and he always prided himself in supporting her without question. It would be unacceptable to bow out _now,_ and over Potter’s juvenile prank no less.

“Harry, I’ve got an idea —” Weasley’s sudden appearance in Draco’s floo saves him from having to put any of that into words, staring at them dumbfounded when he finally realises that they are _not_ Potter. “Is Parkinson there holding Darlington?”

Right, Pansy is still clutching the squirming ferret. Draco supposes he can forgive Weasley for being stunned by that, she is a fearsome thing to behold even when she is not actively trying to stop humanity's cruelty, and Weasley likely never saw her so much as glance at an animal. Those self-righteous Gryffindors can be wonderfully prejudiced; they don’t even notice. Weasley, in his impeccable timing, arrived to see Pansy at her brightest, most willing to behead someone to get her point across.

Draco should warn him. If he makes only one slightly derogatory comment against anything Pansy holds in high esteem, there _will_ be blood flowing.

Draco picks up his tea and leans back to enjoy the spectacle.

Anger flashes over Weasley’s face, burning and all consuming, and suddenly he is out of the floo and barging into Draco’s parlour, glowering at Pansy and stalking towards her. It’s not a question anymore, how Potter’s awkward and fumbling sidekick managed to survive the war; Draco would almost worry if he didn’t have full faith in not only Pansy’s competence but also the enjoyment she finds in knocking arrogant tossers (which yes, does include Draco sometimes, everyone is flawed) down a few notches. No, Draco’s biggest concern is Potter, who won’t like finding his friend's spirit broken and will force yet _another_ ferret onto Draco.

“Hand over the ferret, Parkinson, I won’t allow you to make him into one of your fur coats.” Weasley thinks Pansy would — oh this is _brilliant_ , better than Draco could have imagined. Pansy is going to make a coat out of _him_ if Weasley isn’t careful . Two grievous attacks on her precious animals in the space of mere minutes, that is uncharted territory and it’s definitely _Weasley’s_ safety Draco should be concerned about, if only because getting blood out of carpets is a pain.

“How _dare_ you suggest that I would ever wear such an atrocity, such an open declaration of hubris and idiocy?” Pansy is close to manic, shaking with coiled anger and meeting Weasley head on, the ferret smart enough to move far out of the way. “Do you even know how much these animals _suffer_ just so you can wear their fur? How _many_ of them are _brutally murdered_ to piece together a coat?

“Over 80% of these animals are raised for their fur only, stuffed into crowded, filthy wire cages before being beaten or electrocuted, and sometimes skinned alive — does that sound pleasant to you, Weasley, like a life you would want to live? One billion rabbits and other small animals like yes, ferrets, are killed _yearly_ — that means _every year_ , over and over again, do you _understand_ what kind of _numbers_ those are? — so that their pelts can be stolen and the animals discarded after losing the only thing of worth.” Weasley is looking a bit pale there, staring at Pansy in shock and numbly letting himself be poked when Pansy makes an especially gruesome point. Draco knows all too well how he feels, he has had enough talks like this to last him a lifetime, Pansy stripping away his wilful ignorance argument by argument.

“And that’s only the official fur production! Millions of raccoons, coyotes, bobcats, beavers, and other fur-bearing animals are killed every year by trappers via the steel-jaw trap — which is _exactly_ what it sounds like and has been banned for being inhumane. But that isn’t the worst thing, do you want to know the absolute worst thing? Those are all _muggle_ statistics, for muggle animals and under muggle law — in our world we don’t even care enough to _create_ those statistics, to even question if _maybe_ we should treat magical creatures as sentient beings with feelings, that _possibly_ they deserve more care and respect than we give them.”

Weasley looks terrified, opening his mouth ever now and then to interject but Pansy doesn’t even stop to glare at him, forging on with her points and steamrolling over him. It’s beautiful.

As amusing as this is, however, Draco was not exaggerating about the tenacity of bloodstains, and by now it’s high time he steps in. Literally, Pansy doesn’t exactly listen to pleading words anymore. Standing up to insert himself between them, their combined fury snapping onto him, Draco think this was a very stupid idea. He should have let Weasley die and bought a new rug.

“I think there has been a misunderstanding here, something that could have been easily avoided if you would respect the boundaries of politeness and privacy or even bothered to ask a few essential questions before jumping to conclusions, Weasley.” Weasley practically _growls_ at him — has he always been this _tall?_ It’s only the thought of Pansy standing right behind him and that she wouldn’t let Weasley take out his frustrations on him that keeps Draco standing upright. “Pansy is a ferocious animal-rights-activist, you see, and she was appalled at how Potter treats these unfortunate ferrets the two of you dragged in.”

Weasley doesn’t seem to know how to react to that, to Pansy being furious and opening his eyes to a horror he was very content to ignore. Draco can almost see the cogs turning and rattling, trying to process the information and find the appropriate reaction. Draco takes this prime chance to slip out of his near-murder spot and onto the safe distance of the couch, vowing to restrict himself to shouting comments between them from now on.

Which is, of course, when Weasley does the last mistake he will ever make, and laughs right in Pansy’s face. Draco can only pray she will murder him outside, for the sake of his carpet, but it’s too late for Weasley. The fool has decided his fate.

“Who would have thought you are such a softy? The big bad Slytherin bitch, going all mushy over a kitten. This is _priceless,_ absolutely priceless. Not so cold-hearted that you don’t fawn over any tiny animal you meet.” Draco has to admire Weasley’s dedication to making his situation worse and worse, digging his own grave with every word he gasps out between laughter.

“I don’t know if you didn’t listen to me or simply didn’t understand me, but I don’t see anything _funny_ about animal torture, Weasley.” Pansy's words are icy and imperious, giving the impression of being totally unaffected by Weasley laughing at her. Draco knows she is not, that as used as she is to people not taking her fights for animal rights seriously, it never gets easier for her.

Draco remembers that one time after Pansy stormed off from a devastating win for her and Draco thought to seek her out and congratulate her, when he found her crying in the library. She makes a good show of acting like their cruel words don't hit her, but Pansy was raised to yearn for validation like all of them, and it's not an easy lesson to unlearn.

Draco held her then, words useless and insufficient, but she clung to him like he was the only thing holding her up. It was enough that day, and it has always been enough since. Weasley didn't hurt Pansy any more than she has been hurt time and time again, and Draco will help her bear it. He just also wishes he could have protected her from it altogether.

“Oh it’s not funny, not at all! I just didn’t think _you_ would see it that way. I didn’t think you would care about animals, let alone to that amount.” Weasley says it as if that excuses his laughter, which is _doesn’t_.

“I’ll have you know that my fondness is strictly limited to _intelligent_ creatures, which rules out the likes of you and, subsequently, that I don’t care at all what you have to say about me.” That is a lie, unfortunately still only the ideal to strive for, but Pansy does has her priorities and a very convincing haughty expression.

“What about Pandas, then? They are hardly what one would call intelligent but I don’t believe for a second that you don’t care about them.” Draco has enough experiences with Gryffindors issuing challenges to recognise what Weasley is doing, but that doesn’t help him understand what is going on at all. How did they get here? Why isn’t Weasley on the floor begging Pansy’s forgiveness for being too careless and ignorant?

“Of course I am fond of Pandas, I'm not blind! You will also have to apologise to _every single one of them_ for calling them stupid, they are very intelligent in their own way. They are masters of camouflage in both snowy and shady habitats, and they will often climb a tree backwards with their hind legs until they're in a handstand to urinate, effectively and deceptively marking their scent higher up. Unless _you_ can do that better than them, you have no right to talk about them like that.” Draco … really could have done without _that_ mental picture.

Weasley, too, is blushing a bright red that clashes horribly with his hair, and looks away, effectively conceding the point to Pansy. Pansy, who is mustering Weasley with speculative interest.

Oh sweet Merlin, no! The thought of Pansy and Weasley together is even worse than Weasley doing circus acrobatics naked in a tree!

"Say _Ronald_ ," Pansy practically _purrs_ , leaning close and pouting her lips — Draco needs to stop this right now! Literally _anything_ would be better than watching Pansy flirt with and then devour Weasley! What happened to Weasley laughing at her? Why isn't Pansy furious?

"How is _Granger_?" Draco congratulates himself on the stroke of genius. Then he curses himself, because now they are _looking_ at him again and Pansy doesn't seem pleased at all. Draco can't be sure if it's because he reminded them of Weasley's quasi wife or because he interrupted her hunt, but he'll pay for that one.

Weasley is more complicated to read, possibly because Draco actively avoided ever learning. It's true, they tell you to know your enemies and keep them close and all, but Draco would really prefer not to. Plus, in the end, it has always been more Potter than Weasley who warranted that treatment. Now Draco wishes he had maybe paid a little more attention, perhaps he could read something out of the chaos on Weasley’s face then.

As things are Draco can only guess at the conflict, the guilt towards Granger and interest towards Pansy, the thoughts racing on what would be the best possible outcome here, how to best answer Draco’s pointed question.

“She is good, busy and working a lot, but good.” That’s how it is then, Weasley is _lonely_. Figures, he must have loved Granger since they all were barely 11 years old, but Weasley also needs a lot of attention.

Tragic that, young love. Too strong to let go but not substantial enough to build a life on, not for both parties anyway. So here Weasley is, in love with a woman who takes him for granted and doesn’t pay him any more attention than her supply of tea, checking in ever now and again to see if she needs to restock something. Pansy nearly drooling over him must be the most exciting thing that happened to the poor man lately (not exactly uncommon, Pansy has a way of making her attention something thrilling, even when she isn’t actively trying to get into your pants).

Pansy has come to the same conclusion, and she leans impossibly closer, all her aggression and fight gone in favour of the prowl. “That’s decided then, we are going to have coffee and you will apologise to the Pandas.”

And that was that. Weasley blushes but nods, Pansy drops a kiss on Draco’s forehead and promises to call later, and then she pulls a disbelieving Weasley through the floo.

Draco has been dumped for Weasley. Wonderful.


	4. Chapter 4

They are watching Ghostbusters again and Harry sincerely regrets letting Seamus choose the movie. Not that Ghostbusters is bad! It’s just that Malfoy will hardly be shocked by that, he walked in on them watching it often enough that Harry is fairly sure that, by now, Malfoy knows the entire movie. He must also have reconciled himself with the _ridiculously lacking understanding Muggles have of magic and the world they live in_ , because he doesn’t even flinch anymore when he catches a scene in passing. Holding movie nights at Grimmauld has lost all its fun.

Harry didn’t mean to scandalise Malfoy that first time, he just wanted to host their tradition at his finally less hostile house. Grimmauld was huffing and puffing and _not pleased,_ but they went mostly unbothered. And then Malfoy came in, looking for whatever and freezing as he saw they were not only using the curious and infernal Muggle machine he couldn’t figure out the purpose of (he even _asked_ once, Harry can only assume he wanted to know on which pile trash he needed to sort it). Malfoy watched the Marshmallow-Man in morbid fascination, and while Harry doesn’t think the scene too unrealistic — given _everything_ that magic can do — Malfoy had plenty to criticize and ridicule to dole out. The only thing he _didn’t_ laugh at, is the concept of a movie, a story that can be watched on demand and never changes, Harry strongly suspects that’s because Malfoy didn’t fully grasp it and didn’t want them to lock him into the talking box with the angry Marshmallow-Man.

Since that day, Harry volunteered his house for movie night more often. And because they are mostly all poor and live in tiny shoe-boxes of flats so finding a way to pile everyone into any of their living rooms usually took up half their time and most of their nerves. Grimmauld was the obvious choice, big enough for everyone to comfortably fit and with the added benefit of annoying Malfoy.

Maybe that last one was mostly only a perk for Harry, come to think of it. But then, he died to save this miserable world, surely he deserves to use any and every chance he gets to taunt and perturb slimy, evil Slytherin twats.

The floo flares up in the blue parlour. Malfoy is home then and Harry is immediately more interested in the movie, the anticipation of Malfoy stumbling through the door enough to shake him out of his half-comatose state. _Technically,_ Harry shouldn’t be able to hear when Malfoy gets in — that’s why he chose the most remote floo they have. That Harry can hear him anyway, _every single time_ , must be Grimmaulds doing, passive aggressively pushing Harry to wait up and greet the git when he comes home. Instead Harry uses that knowledge to skip the movie to the scene the most likely to make Malfoy wrinkle his aristocratic nose — Venkman covered in fake ghost slime. Sure, that’s basic disgust and not so much incorrect magical properties, but Harry can enjoy all kinds of horror on Malfoy’s face. He is terrible like that.

The door opens just as Harry arranged himself back into an uncaring sprawl, making it look like he didn’t just frantically leap over half the room to grab the remote from Ginny and adjust the movie. They are still all staring at him as if he is crazy, but thankfully Malfoy’s dramatic entrance needs their attention more and his cover is safe.

“Potter, for the _last_ time, we agreed —” Malfoy stops dead, looking pale and sickly at the green mess on TV. Harry, because he wants Malfoy to have all the space he could need for his tirade, pauses the movie right there. Malfoy doesn’t appreciate it.

“Was there something you wanted, Malfoy,” Harry asks, carefully innocent and bright, giving him nothing Malfoy could object to if he doesn’t want to look like a complete wanker.

“Yes, I want you and all your little friends out of my house.” Right, Harry had forgotten that Malfoy has no problems with being an enormous git when there is no one he considers his equal around to see and judge.

It’s more than Malfoy’s imperviousness to manners though, he doesn’t look too well. Harry has no idea where he was all day, but he looks exhausted, frail almost. He doesn’t lose his meticulously cultivated posture, doesn’t slump in on himself or lets his hair fall into disarray, but there is no spark in his eyes, no arrogant irritation in his voice, no _energy_ to him.

Harry doesn’t like it.

Harry doesn’t like it, because that means Malfoy isn’t as much fun to tease. He doesn’t care about Malfoy's well-being, if he had a hard day and what he even did. Harry is just … _indignant_ that Malfoy would give all his attention and time to something else and then come back and not be as irked by the disgusting slime as he should be. All the pains and efforts Harry went to, inviting the house full of people and pausing the movie specifically for him — and Malfoy can’t even be bothered to fake a little conviction when he attempts to throw them out? No insults, only a pathetic whiff of derision — Malfoy surely could to better than this.

“Shouldn’t it be Black?” Seamus’ voice cuts through the heavy air. Black? What does he — oh, _that._ Harry glares at him.

That was a very stupid question, even for Seamus’ standards. His name might _legally_ be Black now, but Malfoy will always stay _Malfoy_ , no matter what the magically binding piece of paper says, Harry won't go around calling him by a name he cheated his way into, exploiting Harry’s despair and muddled judgement. Besides, Harry _really_ doesn’t need the reminder that they are married. He is doing alright denying that fact and suppressing it as far as humanly possible, but it’s still a fairly fragile construct. Basically addressing Malfoy as his husband would push the thin wall Harry build between himself and reality.

“ _Lord_ Black to you, Finnegan.” And the haughty drawl is back! Despite everything, Harry is glad to hear it. Even though this insistence on Lordship is ridiculous and makes Harry somewhat uncomfortable.

Malfoy struts off, out and away with no further comment. Harry is back to disappointed.

It takes him a staunch minute to realise that everyone is staring at him. Granted, Harry is used to being stared at, by friends and strangers alike, but this is the kind of stare that means they all know something he doesn’t, something he _should_ know because it’s obvious. He has no idea what they are on about.

“Do I have something on my face?” Apparently Harry is in charge of asking stupid questions now, Seamus’ stopped from speaking again and making it worse by Dean’s hand on his mouth. He doesn’t seem too put out, rather happy actually, almost like — yeah, no, Seamus is perfectly happy where he is. They should really revisit the agreed upon rules on PDA, Harry didn’t need to see this.

“Besides your giant crush on your husband, you mean,” Ginny suggest, voice saccharine and smirk firmly in place.

 _This_ is why people don’t get along with their ex-partner; they know too much. She also is not intimidated by his scowl at all, laughing in his face and eating her popcorn totally unconcerned. Why did Harry invite her again?

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” There, case closed, watch the movie everyone.

No one watches the movie. Even Dean and Seamus stopped their gross affections to study him. Just great. Harry needs less nosey friends.

“Seriously Harry, you didn’t see the look on your face when Malfoy came in.” Ginny stopped teasing now, sounding earnestly concerned that Harry might not have noticed he was looking forward to Malfoy’s reaction. Which of course he was, but for wholly unconnected reasons and _not_ because he’s _infatuated_ , or whatever she is accusing him of.

“Yeah, mate, and you orchestrated this whole scene for him,” Ron adds, looking around in consideration, judging how much effort put into antagonising someone is too much effort. He says it as if it’s a revelation, as if organising Malfoy’s arrival as unpleasant as possible wasn’t the crucial argument of holding movie night here.

“You _do_ talk an awful lot about him, worse than in 6th year.” Hermione too? Is this some sort of intervention? Aren’t they supposed to have a banner and cards prepared with texts about how much they love him before they list his flaws?

“And the ferrets, man. Do I even have to say anything more than that?” Okay, Harry draws the line at _Dean_ commenting. He and Seamus have been attached at the hip (and Harry doesn’t want to know where also, no sir, not thinking about that) since the first time Seamus tried to impress Dean with a spell and ended with blowing it up instead, they don’t get to have opinions on flirting and pining. Not even when they clearly don’t apply to Harry’s situation.

“Shut up everyone and watch the movie.” They do, after some more laughter and meaningful Looks, but Harry pretends not to notice. Next movie night will be held somewhere else, just to prove them wrong. Because Harry doesn't care that much about Malfoy’s stupid face, he _does not._

* * *

Draco is not a patient man. He gets restless and tired of waiting and he is not shy about making his impatience known. Draco is used to glaring people into working faster, being more efficient, walking on one side of the side of the street when they insist on walking so slowly you seriously have to question if they fell asleep doing it. The very limited amount of patience he has, he reserves for friends and family, people who proved themselves worthy of such indulgence.

And Potter. Draco has been very patient with Potter. Pansy has a few choice words to say about that, but Draco is content not examining this behavioural quirk of his too closely. (They both know what it means, no need to spell it out.)

Yes, Potter has seen extraordinary amounts of patience from Draco, and in thanks he kept pushing and pushing, searching to see how far he could go before Draco has enough. Well. Congratulations Potter, you found the line.

“Care to explain what this is, Potter?” Draco tries to control his seething anger, he really does, but Potter’s smug grin tells him he didn’t succeed.

“Are you telling me that you _don’t_ know what this is? I thought you were supposed to be smarter than that.” Wide eyes, innocently blinking up at him, cradling that horrible creature even closer to his chest. That _can’t_ be safe — Draco half hopes it gives Potter a few nasty scars, for the sheer audacity of dragging it in here.

Potter still makes no move to explain what he hoped to accomplish with bringing yet another animal (not even a flimsy excuse this time, Draco is getting tired of this) and the beast looks equally unmotivated to claw his face off, so it falls to Draco to do something. Fine, if Potter wants to do this the hard way, Draco can do that.

“I have been very patient with you” — Potter snorts, Draco graciously ignores him — “and I allowed all those ferrets you moved in, but there is a line here, Potter. _This_ really goes to far.”

“It’s a _badger_ , no need to make such a big deal out of a perfectly lovely creature.” As if that wasn’t Potter’s plan, stepping up from ferrets and making them larger when he didn’t get the reaction he desired out of Draco. He isn’t even subtle about it, glancing at Draco and then away before looking again, as if that is less obvious than staring outright.

“Do I look like a bloody Hufflepuff to you?”

“No, you don’t actually. Hufflepuffs are great people, I _wish_ you were a Hufflepuff, I would certainly like you more than I do now.” That hurts. It shouldn’t, Draco already knew all of that, but it _still_ hurts.

Thankfully, he _is_ a Slytherin and thus learnt early to keep his emotions under wraps, not to let them see you bleed. Everyone likes to pick on Slytherins when they think they have a chance to get away with it, and Draco is long used to being avoided and resented for nothing but the colour of is tie.

But Potter? Well, it’s not exactly unexpected, not when he thinks about it. Potter is stubborn and mulish and convinced he has the moral high ground because of that one time he died to save the world. Potter wouldn’t consider that he could possibly be _wrong_ , certainly not where Draco is concerned. He is a prime example for hypocrisy, denouncing Draco for his bias while ignoring his own blatant prejudices. Draco has had enough of the bastard.

“That’s too bad then, married to the big bad Slytherin who holds you captive and makes your life so impossibly hard! Oh wait — I do none of these things! _You_ are the one who decided to turn this arrangement into a constant battle, granting me not one minute to breathe and infesting every single room with these wretched rodents! I wish _you_ were a Hufflepuff.” Not his best insult, nowhere close, but Potter looks like Draco slapped him in the face, so Draco counts it as a win.

“ _I_ am the one to be blamed for everything?” Potter is instantly furious, temper flaring up like wildfire and scaring the badger away. “ _You_ and this blasted house — you make living here _miserable._ Don’t even try and deny it, I _see_ you snicker when Grimmauld suddenly shifts to make me trip, when the cabinets are fused together and I'm the only one ever effected by the draughts. You are far worse than me, you are just too prissy to get your own hands dirty.”

“Don’t blame your issues with Grimmauld on me, Potter.” Unbelievable, how Potter can stand there and still play the golden hero and make Draco responsible for everything. It’s typical Potter, nothing is ever his fault.

“Why shouldn’t I? The only reason I married you at all is so Grimmauld would give me a break. It doesn’t, so you aren’t holding up your end of the deal,” Potter spits out, watching in satisfaction as Draco staggers back at the words.

He knew that Potter didn’t marry him because he suddenly realised he is madly in love, it’s not like _Draco_ married out of love either. This is a business transaction, a marriage of convenience, nothing more. Except it isn’t even that. It’s not convenient, it’s not polite, it doesn’t allow Draco any of the things he dreamed of when he agreed to Potter’s joking proposal. He is not making as much progress with his plans of renovating as he would like, because Potter snatches his papers away when they are forced into the same room and plain refuses to let Draco change a single thing. At this speed, Draco is never going to help his mother. Whatever they are doing here, it isn't based on any agreement.

“ _My end of the deal_? I wasn’t aware we had that kind of _deal_ , maybe you should read the contract again. Or are you illiterate as well as stupid? No wait, I remember now,” Draco smirks at Potter, sees him hesitate at the sudden change of tone, curious despite himself, and, with the cruellest edge of softness he can find, Draco adds, “how should you have learnt, there was no one around to read you bedtime stories, was there?”

Potter is stunned, face completely blank, gaping at Draco. Draco feels smug, vaguely satisfied at gaining back some ground. Potter didn’t expect that, not after everyone so carefully steers away from the dead parents thing. But Potter had it coming, Draco feels not the least bit guilty. How could he possibly expect Draco to keep a respectful distance to his little sob story while simultaneously ripping apart all attempts Draco makes to better the relationship to his own mother?

Something breaks in Potter and murderous rage emerges and before Draco has even time to react Potter’s wand is raised (Draco was so sure his first reaction would be more basic, more muggle, but apparently he did learn something in fighting as the figurehead of a brutal war) and oh, this is how Draco is going to die, isn’t it? Murdered by his own husband, who he has possibly loved since he was 11 years old.

He can see it all now, the whole sordid tale. Potter is going to smite him, fury dancing through his blood and power sizzling in the air. Draco won’t stand a chance. He’ll simply fall, like a puppet with severed strings. Potter will stare in disbelief, anger boiling red and hot, pulsing thickly in his head and filling the room. Slowly he will understand what he did, will fall to his knees in exhausted grief, unsure of the emotions howling in him. And then he will realise that Draco isn’t going to stand up again, that he is dead, snuffed out like a candle, and that there is nothing he can do anymore. They are going to find Potter cradling his lifeless body, crying bitter tears for all the things he will never know about Draco, for the laughter he never heard and the soft moments they never had. They will find Potter mourning a love that could have been, and they will understand the true tragedy that happened here.

Before any of that can happen, Potter falls through the floor. He just … falls. What? There is a loud crash, Potter landing one floor below, presumably, and Draco can only stare at the spot Potter stood not two seconds ago.

So, Draco is not going to tragically die, then?

Careful, driven by dangerous curiosity, Draco moves closer to the edge. It’s rather unlikely that Potter will come flying out of it to kill him after all, but you never know with Potter. He doesn’t appear, however, and Draco is there much sooner than he thought, looking down at Potter’s crumpled form laying on the floor.

Well, that probably means Draco won this round. Potter is unconscious and Draco had the last word, nasty ones at that. Draco definitely won. Even if he is also the one who has to deal with the giant hole in the floor.

* * *

Harry often wondered where Hermione would draw the line in this whole house-and-marriage thing. Never would he have guessed that it’s bodily harm.

“Thank you for coming everyone, I think we all know why we are here.” Hermione looks like she does when she has court days, scarily professional and grown-up, extremely competent and furious. Now Harry knows how these mistreated creatures feel when Hermione takes on their case and fights for their rights.

The entire scene is set up like a courtroom, to intimidate and imitate what Hermione knows and feels comfortable with. There is Harry, partly still bandaged from his involuntary fall (it’s not necessary, he is healed and wasn’t all that grievously injured to begin with, but Ron had smirked at him when he wrapped the cloths around his head, told him he would have to look as hurt as possible if they want to properly exploit the _incident_ ) and backed by Hermione and Ron. They are seated opposite of Malfoy and Parkinson, because a little symbolism can go a far way and apparently what they really need are hardened fronts.

“Excuse me, Granger, but I’ll have to disagree. Your letter was very vague on what you hope to accomplish here today.” Parkinson doesn’t even flinch at Hermione’s most withering glare. Begrudgingly Harry has to admit, that is pretty impressive. Harry has seen judges with the reputation of being hard as stone shrivel in on themselves under that glare. And yet Parkinson just sits there, smiling a barely polite and mostly feral smile, _thrilled_ at this development.

Come to think of it, those judges were all old men Hermione deemed overdue for retirement. Harry remembers because Hermione went on a lengthy rant about the patriarchy and its prevalence in today's allegedly equal society. Harry had been nodding along dutifully, knowing from experience that a ranting Hermione (no matter the topic) is better not interrupted for any purpose, not even to ask questions. Parkinson has that very same energy to her, prepared to take on the world and willing to run into the ground anyone who might be foolish enough stand in her way. Harry is begrudgingly impressed _again_ , it’s becoming something of a pattern.

“Well, if you indeed read the letter, Parkinson,” Hermione’s tone strongly implies that she thinks Parkinson did _not_ read the letter of summoning Hermione sent, “then you would know that we are here because this needs to stop. Harry has been seriously harmed —” Ron steps on his foot, probably as reminder to display some pain to accompany Hermione's claim, but he is so brutal Harry doesn’t have to fake the hurt noise — “and I'm unwilling to let these two morons go on until one of them dies from their stupidity.”

Parkinson nods, as if her suspicions were confirmed and she quite agrees. Which is _insulting_. It’s okay for Hermione to call him an idiot, Harry knows she means it in the best way possible (plus, almost everyone looks like an idiot next to her) but _Parkinson_? She doesn’t have the right.

“Just for the record, that Potter fell on his precious butt is under no circumstances Draco’s fault. It’s an old house, you see, they get mouldy, obsolete. And Potter here refused to let Draco implement any of his restoration plans. We will not take any responsibly for Potter’s grossly exaggerated wounds.” Hermione makes a noise as if she wants to inject (dearly necessary, Parkinson is getting more insulting and just plain wrong with every word she says) but Parkinson doesn’t let her, forging on as Malfoy leans back and smirks. “Furthermore, I'm concerned about the health and happiness of the animals in this house.”

Harry groans, completely unprompted by Ron this time. Everyone turns to glare at him and Parkinson makes an accusing hand gesture at him, meant to express ‘see what I mean’. Right, Harry wasn’t supposed to talk during this negotiation. But then, the plan was for Hermione to steamroll them and wring Malfoy into compliance and _that_ isn’t working too great at the moment. Parkinson has been pestering him with this for _weeks_ , sending him letters suggesting that he is incapable of taking proper care of his animals and instructions on how it’s done, the threat that she would come and take his ferrets away. As if Harry could ever hurt innocent creatures because he couldn’t be bothered to look up what care they require.

“Animals?” Hermione asks sharply, the question directed at Ron and Harry. They might have neglected to tell her about that tiny detail. Three ferrets and one badger — it just didn’t seem _necessary_ for Hermione to know. And, in their defence, they were pretty sure she was never going to find out. Things would have gone smoothly if only Parkinson didn’t consider him a complete imbecile, which is Malfoy’s fault for spreading misinformation about Harry, which makes _all of this_ Malfoy’s fault. Harry glares at the smug prick.

“They are well cared for!” Ron has always been better at calming Hermione, so Harry has no qualms about trusting him with that task while he himself keeps psychosocially dismantling their smirking enemy. “We also made sure the ferrets are in no danger from the badger —”

“You have a _badger_?” Parkinson stands up suddenly, looking around widely as if fearing Honey would jump out of nowhere and attack her. Harry can’t suppress a snort. _Of course_ badgers are where Parkinson’s surprising passion stops. After how Malfoy reacted Harry really shouldn’t have been surprised. Harry wonders idly how they might react to a lion, when Parkinson starts screeching again. “Are you out of your minds? These animals are _protected_ so idiots like you two can’t just pick them up and force them into cages! Haven’t you ever heard of the Protection of Badgers Act of 1992?”

No, Harry hasn’t. Is that even really a thing or is Parkinson making that up on the spot?

“That Act makes exceptions for injured animals taken in with the intend of caring for them,” Ron declares confidently, which probably means that yes, it _is_ a thing and for some reason, Ron is very familiar with it. The considering look Parkinson musters him with should be classified as public indecency, only made worse by how wholly unexpected her appreciation is.

Ron _preens_ under her eyes. Okay, _that_ is the thing that makes it worse. So much, horrifyingly worse.

Hermione looks at Ron, too, equally impressed but far less lewd, thank Merlin. Ron doesn’t seem less pleased by Hermione’s admiration though, which makes sense because they have been in love for far too long for Parkinson's weird advances to matter. Harry nods to himself, satisfied. His friends might be a little bit stupid about this, but not stupid enough to give each other up.

“In that case, I demand to see the badger and take them to a vet to verify their health.” Parkinson sounds all business again, possibly because she realised Ron isn’t interested or because what Ron told Harry is true and they actually did spent an afternoon discussing the merits of ferrets and pandas over coffee because Parkinson has a soft spot for animals. Harry thought he was joking.

“Right, so Ron you will go get the badger and then we’ll take it to the vet.” Ron does as Hermione told him and Harry isn’t sure if he is fleeing the room or if he would have liked to stay. “After making sure the badger will be okay, we will reconvene here to deal with the two of you.”

Harry almost managed to forget that’s why they are here. In between the bizarre flirting and the animal rescues, Malfoy had slipped from his mind for a few glorious moments. Harry would be content to leave it like that, no need for their friends to come back and _deal with them_. He might not know Parkinson particularly well, but he _does_ know Hermione. He doesn’t want her meddling in his marriage. He doesn’t even know what she is imagining for them, how she plans to fix this, but he tried to dissuade her from doing something drastic the moment she declared she had enough. Arguing with Hermione is like arguing with a bulldozer though, you stand absolutely no chance and if you don’t jump out of the way quickly enough you won’t live to tell the tale.

“Got the badger,” Ron announces as he enters the room, now carrying the same cage he used when he first presented it to Harry.

“On we go then. You two” — Hermione fixes Malfoy and him with a stern glare — “don’t move an inch. No magic either, I don’t want to come back and find you injured _again_.”

Deeming them sufficiently informed and intimidated Hermione steps into the floo, closely followed by Ron. Harry expected Parkinson would go with them, after making such clamour about the whole thing, but she just looks at them, head cocked to the side like a birds.

“Pansy, just go and make sure Granger doesn’t kill the badger, I promise Potter won’t jump me the second you are gone.” Malfoy sounds exasperated, like they had this conversation time and time again already, but Parkinson doesn’t listen to him.

“That’s a shame, but I wasn’t really worried about that.” Suddenly her face lights up and she smirks. That can’t be a good sign for Harry. “Right, I’ll go play with the Weasleys, you have fun here, darling.”

Before Harry can stop her she is gone, stepping into the floo and … casting a ward?

“Oh that — she locked us in together!” Malfoy noticed the ward too, and he is familiar enough with Parkinson's magic and intention to realise immediately what she did. Namely, trap Harry with the annoying bastard he was just repeatedly warned not to harm. This is just _wonderful_.

“What did she mean, _play_ with them?” Maybe not his most pressing concern at the moment, but a concern nonetheless.

Malfoy stops and glances up from where he was inspecting the ward — looking for a way to break it, Harry hopes, he really doesn’t want to be stuck here — to favour him with a look that implies that Harry is the biggest idiot on the planet for having to ask. Is that supposed to answer the question? Or is Malfoy just going to ignore him, apart from the occasional derisive sneer? Harry might put up with that where only himself is concerned, but this is about his friends, and Harry won’t stand for Parkinson doing — whatever it is she plans on doing. She was far too excited at the prospect for it to have been something positive.

“So you don’t know either?” Harry asks, determined to get a straight answer this time. Malfoy abruptly lets go of the ward, standing tall to scowl at Harry. Harry has to suppress a smirk, Malfoy is so easy to bait.

“Of course _I_ know. Not only is Pansy my best friend, but I’m not a complete idiot and I understand what was tactfully left unsaid.” Yeah, that doesn’t help Harry at all. He isn’t an idiot either, but Slytherin interaction and innuendo is not exactly his area of expertise. He’ll have to do more baiting, something to make Malfoy think he doubts his words, something simple that shows — Harry raises his eyebrow.

“Fine, you want me to spell it out? I’ll spell it out.” Malfoy smirks at him, slinking over and holding his eyes. Maybe Harry pushed a little far there, he isn’t sure he wants to know anymore. “Pansy has taken somewhat of a liking to your Weasel, and she always liked strong women. And she likes attention, likes being the centre of it and laving it on shy little souls and watch them bloom under her gaze. She is going to aggressively flirt with both of them and make them fall in love with her biting wit and passion.”

Malfoy stands impossibly close, close enough that he whispered the last words into Harry’s ear, close enough that Harry can sense him, feel his warmth and smell his shampoo. It’s … confusing, Malfoy close enough to touch, and Harry can’t stop thinking about that night when Malfoy found the first ferret, how it felt to hold him and how Malfoy smells the same now and then. Then Harry jerks back, because he almost _did_ touch Malfoy, and that would not only be awkward but also shake the denial Harry buried himself in.

It’s all perfectly fine though, he can explain this. Malfoy is objectively good looking and Harry is a young and healthy man, he has needs, same as anyone. It’s simple biology, nothing Malfoy specific. A distressing comment on his recent sex life, that’s all. Harry just needs to get laid and then he can finally stop thinking about Malfoy in those pyjamas, about Malfoy out of those pyjamas — stop! Right there, no more thinking about Malfoy as anything but the unpleasant pillock that he is.

For once in his life, Malfoy is actually helpful, smirking at Harry and reminding him of how completely and utterly obnoxious he is.

“Don’t like the idea of your friends head over heels for Pansy? Is it because she is a Slytherin or because she is my friend?” Malfoy asks idly, studying his nails, eyes flitting up to Harry's. Bloody twat, Harry doesn’t find him attractive at all.

“You don’t seriously believe that, do you? You might not have noticed because you are self-centred, but they are madly in love with each other already. And straight, monogamous, whatever — not interested, that is what they are.” Harry might be getting overly defensive here, Malfoy is going to think he is trying to cover up some dirty secret now. Which he isn’t, the thought of _both_ of them falling for _Parkinson_ of all people is just ridiculous and Harry has to make sure Malfoy understands that.

“If you are so sure of that, why don’t we bet on it?” There are a million reasons why this is a bad idea, the way Malfoy eagerly leans forward as he proposes it just one of them, but Harry has terrible impulse control.

“Done! What does the winner get?” Vaguely Harry is aware that he might have just signed his fate away, but competition — especially when Malfoy is involved — always sends a unique thrill through him. He has no regrets, not even when Malfoy looks as if he had already won.

“Oh I couldn’t possibly decide now — how about a favour?” Dealing in favours is dangerous business, even when you don’t have Slytherins to consider, but Harry desperately wants Malfoy to owe him a favour and he agrees before his worry can catch up with his exhilaration.

Malfoy’s hand is warm in Harry's, delicate, long fingers curled pleasantly around his wrist. Harry snatches his hand away before his thoughts can wander down _that_ road (again).

“Did you find out anything useful about that ward or did you just want to look important?” Harry asks, quickly changing the subject and latching on to the new problem to obsess over. Anything is better than to keep leering at Malfoy.

Malfoy sneers, his nice hands folded against himself, arms crossed, and if Harry didn’t know better he’d say Malfoy is hurt by his sudden retreat. Which is a) preposterous and b) irrelevant, even if true, so Harry doesn’t dwell on it and forces himself to focus on the ward.

“You should be nicer to me, Potter. It’s old pure-blood magic — you don’t stand a chance without me.” That … was probably meant to hurt Harry a lot more than it did. As it stands, Harry is just _fine_ with his dirty peasant blood and lifestyle that would make every pure-blood spin in their grave.

“Why are you still here then, if you could be gone?” If it really is some rabid blood supremacist nonsense, then Malfoy should be able to leave, stroll out thought the door and yell obscenities at Harry. Not that that is how Harry _planed_ to spend his day, but better be stuck with his own excellent company than with _Malfoy_ , who doesn’t even need to say anything to spread misery.

Malfoy heaves a long-suffering sigh. This sort of thing is exactly why Harry would prefer the git to exploit the system and use his privileges, leave Harry be to knock him down later.

“Because this isn’t a blood test, you imbecile. Don’t think I'm here because I _want_ to be here.” Malfoy is avoiding the question. Sure, being insulted in every single sentence serves as a nice reminder of why Malfoy is _not_ attractive, but Harry’s patience is wearing thin. He is sufficiently reminded now.

“Well, I don’t enjoy _your_ sparkling personalty either, Malfoy. Cough it up already so we can get out of here.” Malfoy scowls at him, which is not quite the spluttering indignation Harry had hoped for but it will have to be good enough.

“Fine then, it’s meant to enforce a bonding or, especially for arranged marriages, well,” now Malfoy _does_ stutter, going bright red and resolutely doesn’t look at Harry. Interesting. “It’s meant to enforce an agreement, or a consummation of marriage.”

Right, that explains the embarrassment. Though Harry didn’t expect Malfoy to be such a prude. He’s half tempted to play dumb, ask Malfoy to clarify because his poor uncultured brain doesn’t understand his fancy and proper awkwardness. He also does want to get out of here today, and he suspects hearing Malfoy talk about sex might not only take up more time than he is willing to spare, but also make up for the revolting personality in Harry’s skewed calculations on his objective attractiveness.

“Any way to get out of here without having to _consummate the marriage_?” Harry makes sure his words are infused with mocking, reflecting Malfoy's own phrasing back at him to make him confront how ridiculous it is. Malfoy doesn’t appreciate it.

“If you had evolved past the caveman behaviour, you would have realised there are plenty of ways to strike an accord and satisfy the demands of the ward,” Malfoy hisses at him, still furiously blushing but angry enough to glare again. It would be hilarious, if it didn’t also mean another deal with Malfoy. That makes everything less amusing.

“Right, we’ll just agree on something then, because that worked so well for me the last time. You must be out of your mind if you think I would do so much as _consider_ —” that’s how far Harry gets before Malfoy interrupts him.

“That’s rich coming from you of all people! _You_ are the one who sabotages all my plans and can’t let a moment go by without being actively hostile!” Malfoy sneers at him and it’s like a switch is being flicked, Harry's mind once again abandoning all reason.

 _Harry_ is the one being hostile? Fine, he’ll show him _hostile_. Malfoy is going to regret bringing that up.


	5. Chapter 5

“Explain again why you are abandoning us for this month’s evening of shocking our parents with the depraved lives we are living,” Blaise asks, deceptively light as he takes a sip of his drink.

Draco groans. This is the third time that he asks since Draco told them an hour ago. Twice now Draco had indulged in the foolishly naive hope that his friends were done with the teasing and prodding and they could move on to more interesting topics than his deal with Potter, but every time Blaise had to shatter the illusion by bringing it up _again_.

“Because he will be busy flirting with his new husband, who hates his guts and has no idea that Draco harbours some kind of affectionate maelstrom for him. Does that sound about right, Pansy?” Theo always manages to make Draco think he is the kindest of them all, but it's moments like this when he reminds them that he is not actually an even-tempered and well-mannered bookworm, but in fact a snake as devious as the rest of them. Of course he is, he would hardly have survived going to school with them if he wasn’t.

“Almost, though I don’t think the term of flirting can be applied here, not if you define it as a light-hearted exchange of suave words and charming smiles. Judging by what I saw of their recent interactions, their dinner will have to be measured on a completely new scale of awkward and uncomfortable small talk about the weather, interspersed with staggering attempts at conversation and perhaps, if we are very lucky, one or two relatively inspired insults.” Draco despises them all. Pansy especially for being the one who got him into this situation in the first place and now makes fun of him for it. If it wasn't for _her_ meddling and warding —

“Your courtship might be a bit unconventional but you have my full support, my friend.” Blaise nods, and Draco contemplates if he could get away with strangling him here and now, surrounded by friends who might just acknowledge Draco’s right to defend his dignity and hidden far away in some Muggle bar, where no one knows them and no one will care with a few of the right spells. “But to break with tradition older than us and deprave us of the scandalised face Pansy’s mother is sure to make when she learns you’ve shacked up with Potter? That’s selfish, Draco.”

Solemn nods all around the table, everyone agreeing that yes, Draco is the worst friend possible for being forced into a torturous charade of playing house with Potter to appease Grimmauld. And Draco had hoped they would help him talk his way out of this one. He should have known they would be too amused to be of much use.

“I know, how cruel of me to favour a tedious evening with stilted conversation with my dull husband over spending time with my friends who love to tease and pester me instead of adhering to the loyalty we are infamous for.” That came out bitterer than Draco expected. Yes, he doesn’t look forward to his evening with Potter — it will be even worse than they are predicting, and they all know he has barely concealed resentment and active antagonising to look forward to — but Draco didn’t mean to drag the mood down by putting this pesky truth into words, making it unavoidable.

Great, now everyone is quiet, watching him with considering looks. A table full of silent Slytherins, that is a dangerous thing indeed. Draco shouldn’t have said anything, should have just let them get their jokes out and then remind them that Pansy flirted with Weasley and ask her if she managed to charm Granger yet. Pansy loves to talk about her conquests, they could have spend the rest of their evening getting pleasantly drunk and tomorrow over dinner when neither of them knows what to say, Draco could have _insinuated_ something about Pansy’s progress to Potter. They do have a bet Draco intends to win, after all. Potter then would react rather violently, like he did the last time Draco dared to imply his precious friends could fall to Pansy’s devilish vices, and Draco would have Potter’s temper to admire and poke at to alleviate the boredom.

Instead he just had to be a gloomy brat, moping because life isn’t perfect. Well done, Malfoy, destroyed the mood spectacularly.

“Do you want us to break your legs so you will have to stay in St. Mungo’s until you are healed and unfortunately miss your appointment with Potter?” Blaise is the first to break the silence, grin wicked and eyes bright. But there is a darkness hovering just underneath the surface, ready to pounce at just one word from Draco. The message is clear: if Draco is serious, if he were to give the slightest indication that this is what he wants, Blaise would do much more for him than break a few legs. They all would, for every single one of their group.

“Do you want us to break _Potter’s_ legs?” Theo’s question, though no less earnest in his offering of the same unquestioned loyalty, makes them laugh and dispels the tension that grew somewhere between Draco’s sullen remark and Blaise’s suggestion.

Draco didn’t doubt for a second that they would kill Potter and dump his body in the Thames if that were the best course of action, but it’s nice to be reassured regardless. What can he say, Potter is a sore topic for him, and having such a strong reminder that Draco is far from alone in this disaster is much appreciated. It can get lonely, having a husband who makes no secret out of hating you.

“Much as I would like that, I'm too young and pretty to devote myself to caring for a crippled husband.” Draco would be contractually obligated to stay with Potter and make sure he is as best cared for as possible.

Draco made sure to add some sketchy morals into their papers; it’s not too unheard of and seemed totally justified at the moment. Initially Draco thought it would be best to be prepared for the highly likely event that Potter’s hot-headed Gryffindor logic realised that the easiest way to get out of an unwanted marriage is the tragic death of a husband, which would lead to an attack Draco would _probably_ survive and end with him in a state he doesn’t want to be left alone in. Granted, now that it might be _Draco_ who gets trapped by the clause he wishes he never added it; it does seem a bit far fetched. That might just be why Weasley let Potter sign them, come to think of it.

“What exactly does your deal contain, anyway? I was so surprised to find you both alive and outside the ward last time, that I didn’t think to ask.” Draco snorts at that. It’s a shameless lie.

Pansy was too busy complimenting Granger's hair to ask, but Draco doesn’t correct her. He made the mistake of reminding her before, thinking to tease her about it, but instead Pansy went on an hour long rant about how amazing her hair is and how much she wishes she could braid it and if Granger would allow that or if she doesn’t care for braids because she never wears them but maybe she just doesn’t have the patience to do them herself but having the dark curls constantly in her face seems to bother her and Pansy will have to do some research on how to best braid and care for black hair because she doesn’t want to embarrass herself in front of Granger and really Pansy should have thought of this sooner — that’s the part that took an hour, Pansy’s freak out over hair structure and how to not make a fool out of herself. All very valid; all nothing Draco could bear to listen to again.

Draco doesn’t point out that Pansy is helplessly falling for Granger. Instead he spares her the prodding questions this would evoke and talks about his own problems, because he is a good friend like that.

“Potter insisted that Grimmauld isn’t treating him with the due respect — he is right, it’s hilarious — and came up with the crazy idea of tricking the house into thinking we are in love. In theory that would afford him the luxury of warm water. It’s a ridiculous plan, sure to fail, but while Potter makes an idiot out of himself instead of simply _demanding_ what he is owed, he agreed to stop sabotaging my renovation plans. Dearly necessary, believe me, and not only because it would mean a lot to my mother.” So much in fact, that Draco cannot put it into words. His last visits have worn him down, having to disappoint his mother’s tentative hopes time and time again. He refuses to do so any longer, Draco shudders to think what it might do to her if he doesn't get this done soon.

So there you have it, that is their ridiculous plan, reduced to its bare essentials. They are doomed, aren’t they?

That is what he initially thought, at least. Sitting here now, watching his favourite people all talk over each other, pointing out flaws and asking for clarification, Draco thinks he might be alright. Worst case scenario, Draco will make a very handsome widower with a house finally completely his own.

* * *

“Why did I have to hear from _Parkinson_ that you are going to have dinner with Malfoy?” Ron asks not a second after slamming open the kitchen door, making Harry flinch and cut himself on the knife he was inspecting. “And _what_ are you doing here — spreading your blood throughout the house like scent markers for the inevitable case that dinner goes badly and Malfoy decides to throw you out?”

Ron is still scowling, though he also hands Harry a towel to staunch the flowing blood and keeping him from bleeding out. That’s a good sign, right? Ron being furious with _Harry_ is a rare and terrifying thing, because, while he is plenty angry at all kinds of things if the mood strikes him, _Harry_ is usually safe. Come to think of it, all Harry’s friends are rather fantastic when angry, and he would love to watch them from a safe distance away.

“No, Ron, I do _not_ intend to spread my filthy half-muggle blood in the house — do you think I should? Malfoy might get a heart-attack if I set the accents right. He’ll be disgusted and scandalised in the very least. Then he’ll think I’m mental and maybe then he’ll agree to a divorce —” Harry can see it all so clearly.

Malfoy would come back from his fancy dinner and find the living room splattered in blood. Harry would grin manically for effect, the ‘deranged convict escaped from Azkaban’ grin Sirius taught him proudly, and Malfoy would slowly back away and never dare show his face again. All further contact would be via owls that Harry would train to bite Malfoy as often as possible.

“You are still dripping blood, mate; it’s starting to worry me.” Ron has somehow both completely missed the point and cut to the real issue.

He further realised that Harry isn’t going to use the towel he so thoughtfully provided, that he would be content to wait for the bleeding to stop on its own (and it will, eventually the blood will dry and everything will be fine; Harry is reasonably sure you can’t bleed out from your thumb) and, with an exasperated sigh, Ron summons the first-aid-kit Hermione insisted they install. Harry watches numbly as Ron cleans the cut with a spell that hurts in that way they try to tell you means it’s working but is actually just rude, and puts a plaster on it.

Still disgruntled from being ripped out of his perfect dream of getting rid of Malfoy before their new deal starts, Harry tries to pull his hand away and throw Ron out again (because he is _busy_ , not in any way, shape, or form moping) but Ron holds his hand in an iron grip, wrapping his thumb into white dressing. Which seems excessive but what does Harry know? It’s not like he has all that much experience with getting small wounds fixed up; the Dursleys never bothered and at Hogwarts Harry always immediately got as close to death as possible without dying. Ron, however, learnt from Molly; he must know what he is doing. Harry desperately clings to that thought as he watches Ron wrap his _entire hand_ into the gauze. Well, actually, with five older brothers, maybe the twins got settled with nursing duties. It would explain a lot.

Despite that, it's kind of nice to be cared for, even if it’s overprotective and — Harry can’t move his hand. This is officially too much now.

“Ron, not that I don’t appreciate having the bloodstream in my hand cut off, but I can’t move it at all.” Ron smirks at him. Oh no.

“That was the plan, you moron. I don’t know what you thought to do to that poor knife but it looked dangerous. I seem to remember you promising to stay out off the kitchen after you nearly burned down our place as you tried to make breakfast, until midway through you remembered that you hate cooking and don’t want to do it anymore.” That is a fair point, unfortunately. Harry _did_ make that promise. In his defence, Harry didn't think Ron would be serious about enforcing it.

Which is not going to help his case here. Quick, a diversion!

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Not his best, but given the time pressure and how he can feel his hand slowly dying, Harry thinks he did quite well.

Ron doesn’t agree. He raises an eyebrow at Harry in a distinctly mocking, somewhat condescending gesture that is awfully familiar, where did Harry see that — “Parkinson! You said you talked to Parkinson!”

Diversion found! Harry is rather proud of that one, neatly turned the tables on his not-so-smug-anymore best friend. Usually this is the kind of argument you don’t think of until it’s too late. But Ron is blushing, fiddling with the knife he just told Harry to stay away from (and miraculously manages to _not_ cut himself, stupid prejudiced house) and suspiciously not looking at Harry. He must have found something good here.

“Parkinson called me, she just wanted to know where I got that badger from because they can’t be legally sold as pets in the UK and she was worried. Then I watched her bust an animal smugglers ring and called the Aurors while she frightened them all into giving up their associates. It was _brilliant_ , you should have seen her, Harry, she didn’t even need her wand to make those bastards cower and confess to everything. I might have bought her tea after that so she could calm down.” Ron sounds far away, mind on that apparently fantastic day he had with Parkinson. Harry frowns, not that Ron pays him enough attention to notice.

“And _then_ she told me you are going to be all lovey-dovey with Malfoy!” Ron whirls around at that, as if Harry’s deal with Malfoy is anywhere _near_ the same level of upsetting as Ron dating Parkinson.

Malfoy’s best friend Parkinson, who is constantly unimpressed, who is allowed to play with Malfoy’s soft hair and tried to hand Harry over to Voldemort. _Pansy Parkinson_. Unbelievable.

“What about Hermione?” That was a low blow, Harry has to admit. He feels bad about it as he watches Ron’s face fall, all the joy and excitement gone in cold devastation.

It’s for his own good though, Harry reassures himself. Better remind Ron of the facts before he gives his heart to Parkinson, who is just going to chew it out and spit it onto his shoes, laughing into his face.

“Hermione is the love of my life, but she doesn’t feel the same way. So if all I can get is her friendship, I’ll treasure that and won’t push for more,” Ron says with conviction, sweeping the sadness away as if it’s nothing. He has gotten good at that, pretending and setting his own feelings back.

They had this talk before, and Harry feels like an arse for bringing it up again when he knew how much it pains his friend.

“Malfoy agreed to fake being in love with me so Grimmauld will make an effort to be nicer.” That’s the closest Harry can come to an apology. He hopes it’s good enough.

Ron smiles at him, crooked and somewhat wobbly, but Harry knows he is forgiven. And that he might have to get used to snakes in his life.

“We agreed that we would have dinner together once a week. First dinner is tomorrow, we need to discuss exactly how much it’s going to take to satisfy Grimmauld. It will be very awkward, but I’ve had enough of this, Malfoy either makes the house behave or I’ll throw him out.” Harry has no idea _how_ he would do that, given that the house vastly prefers Malfoy and the git also legally lives here and has thus every right to stay, but it feels good to say anyway.

Malfoy is going to fix this or Malfoy is going to sleep on the streets. Either way, Harry wins. That will be nice, even better than the ferrets.

“And you plan to — what? Cooks this first shared meal and hope your cooking skills will poison him?” Ron is surprisingly not supportive. Has to be Parkinson's influence, or Ron would have been ecstatic at the idea of settling Malfoy with food poisoning.

“I am, yeah. Are you going to help scheme what I can cook or are you just going to criticise?” Because as lovely as this was (and really, it was mostly just horrifying and Harry wishes he could forget most of what was said) Harry does have to plan a bad meal that will send his husband running for the hills.

Ron sighs, looks between Harry and the danger lurking in the kitchen, and grabs his apron.

“Let’s plan a dinner party.”

* * *

Draco has been to countless uncomfortable dinner parties in his life, playing nice with stuffy old bats and pretentious wankers trying to explain the world to him, as if it wasn't Draco's people who wrote the rules. Draco is well aware that, if he plays his cards right, the world is his for the taking. He doesn't need social upstarts and new money to fumble with the philosophies of people more intelligent than them to recognise that the system is rigged. But those are the people who make the laws, so Draco nods and smiles and offers his humble opinion here and there, while he quietly remembers everything they do that he can later make fun of to make Pansy laugh so hard that she spits out her drink.

Then there was eating at the same table as masked psychopaths, torturing Muggles for fun and honestly convinced they could beat _Harry Potter_. That was a new low, one Draco didn't think he would ever make his way out of. But Potter is a hero and notoriously Good and Draco's house is his own again. It seems fitting, in a twisted way, that now Potter should take the role of Draco's captor in tedious, horrible dinners.

He fills his new capacity wonderfully, with a dreadful promise of this dinner potentially becoming the absolute worst in Draco's plethora of bad dinners — even more scarring than that one time they had to eat Carrow’s cooking, because the idiot killed their cooks in a fit of posturing. Looking around the room, Draco feels confident in declaring Potter worse than Carrow.

It looks like Cupid threw up in here and Draco is grateful for the dimmed lightning. Candles are flickering ominously, casting a warm light onto the elegantly set table and the roses (Potter got him _roses_ ). If his friends weren't just waiting for Draco to back out and tease him about it, he would have been gone before he set two feet into the room. Instead, Draco sits at the table, glares at the rose petal swimming in his champagne (an accident? Surely, it cannot be a sign of affection, not something this impractical and aesthetically unappealing) and waits for Potter to dish out what he prepared.

Apparently their prodigy can cook as well as kill bad guys and snark at people, which is just great. Potter cooking for him today means Draco has to cook for him as well, or risk being accused of not meeting their deal and trying to sneak out of his responsibility. Potter would make fun of him without mercy and Draco would never be allowed to forget about it.

No, Draco will have to cook something for Potter, and then he will have to pick his most elegant robes to attend the funeral of his beloved late husband, who tragically died of food poisoning. How unfortunate. Draco should consider getting new robes for the occasion, Potter is a pretty big deal after all and there will be press at the funeral, wailing fans and a thousand pictures taken. Would it be very macabre if Draco were to commission his robes already? Or would that just make him look suspect?

See, this is why Potter is still alive. Planning a murder is _exhausting_ and distressingly tedious. Draco should ask Theo, he has the uncanny ability to ignite interest and enthusiasm for virtually everything. He would help Draco cut a good figure at the funeral without appearing too prepared. Or his father perhaps, he attended more than one funeral he might or might not have helped bring about.

“Out of the way,” Potter barks at him, manoeuvring a heavy plate dangerously close past Draco’s head.

Draco narrows his eyes at him. If Potter isn’t careful, Draco will have to wear his new robes to his _own_ funeral. This is _definitely_ his worst dinner, not even because it’s potentially his last.

Potter is completely unconcerned, of course, either suspiciously cheery if this was indeed a failed attempt at Draco’s life or obnoxiously eager to shove his extraordinary cooking skills in Draco’s face. Quite literally, Draco should comment on that.

“You are aware you can levitate plates, yes? It’s a fairly simple charm; I’m sure I still have some old schoolbooks, if you would like to revise the lesson from first year.” Draco smiles, his charming, only _vaguely_ mocking smile. Potter’s smile becomes significantly more strained.

“First course is served,” he announces, ignoring Draco’s comment but looking like he wishes him a choking death, murderous enough that Draco fully believes he wanted to hit him over the head earlier. Unbelievable, that Potter thought of dinner as a prime opportunity to lose a husband before Draco did. That’s rather disgraceful, Draco needs to survive this if only to make sure no one ever finds out about his shame.

At least Potter is dedicated to the role of loving trophy husband who stays home to cook and clean and — well, whatever you do when you organise your entire life around pleasing others. Draco always thought it sounded dreadful, a fate he wouldn’t wish on anyone. He has to admit though, Potter looks good playing the part. He seems honestly excited about his dish and, if he didn’t spent years of his youth and education watching and interpreting every minute detail about the man, Draco never would have known that Potter is shouting insults at him in his head. Good thing Potter is rubbish at Legilimency, Draco doesn’t relish the thought of needing to shield constantly around him. It’s ridiculous and sentimental, but Draco never wanted that kind of marriage.

Apparently a spouse trying to murder him over the dinner table is alright, though. Or maybe that’s just because it’s _Potter_ , who seems to be the exception to every rule Draco ever held.

Potter clears his throat, rubs his hands together with clearly malicious glee and lifts the silver dome concealing the first course. Potter does so with more fanfare than an appetiser deserves (and Draco has had some brilliant appetisers, he knows what he is talking about), unnecessary flurries of hands and acting like he is about to reveal humanity’s biggest secret. Draco rolls his eyes at his antics.

Potter raises the cover and presents — shapeless blobs of dull-coloured food. Draco has no idea what that was supposed to be, dismal and drooping, a mockery of the promised outcome. He suddenly seriously doubts Potter’s cooking abilities. But why would Potter cook himself if he can't even manage appetisers?

Draco watches in terror as Potter moves one heap after the other onto a plate that convention implies is meant for Draco. He then numbly takes the plate and doesn't give in to the temptation of dropping it, because that would be rude and his mother raised him better than that.

"Say, Potter, how many courses will there be?" Draco isn't certain he wants an answer. Suffering this won't be easier by knowing exactly how many more courses are waiting. Potter is definitely the kind of bastard that would make Draco eat a terrible 12 course dinner, and he is more than self-sacrificing enough to subject himself to the torment, if that is what it takes. There is no elegant way for Draco to bow out as long as Potter is eating the food as well.

"Five courses, a little on the small side I know, but there are only two of us and I seem to remember you don't eat much." Potter grins and it's surprisingly convincing, one could almost think him genuine, if not for the cryptic allusion to knowledge of Draco's eating habits. That's … disconcerting.

Thankfully, this kind of information doesn't require a response (at least there is nothing _polite_ Draco would be required to say, not until he tested the gloop and has to find something nice to say) so he can simply watch Potter poke at his own plate. It's common sense, not only Draco's apprehension, waiting until Potter takes a bit in order to make sure the food isn't poisoned. Not _intentionally_ , that is, it might be poisonous anyway, but there is no helping that now.

Potter looks excited enough that Draco wonders if possibly the blind idiot needs new glasses — surely no one who can actually _see_ what they are about to eat here can be this enthusiastic? But Potter grabs his fork with a firm hand and no great fumbling or searching, and Draco discards that theory and declares Potter seeing. Which means Potter might just generally behave like an overexcited puppy over food he cooked. A mystery, one of many when it comes to Potter. And yet, this is not something Draco wishes to understand, not if it means he has to endure this situation more often.

Reckless and undaunted by fear Potter digs in and braves a bite of his ambiguous appetiser. Draco holds his breath — this is the moment he has been waiting for, seeing Potter's reaction.

Potter's face falls. No, all of Potter falls, shoulders slumping down and head hanging low, like someone severed the tingling thread of excitement that was holding him up. Disappointment pulls Potter down into indignant grumpiness. It's the most hilarious thing Draco has seen Potter do all year — and that includes the _multiple_ times Potter ran into door frames and tried to blame it on losing his glasses , the very same glasses sitting innocently on his nose. It's a true miracle Draco manages to scrape together enough restraint and not laugh into Potter's pouting face. It would almost be endearing, if this wasn't the same man expecting Draco to smile through 5 courses of recently proven terrible food.

Draco _refuses_ to eat that.

“Are you trying to poison me, Potter?” he asks, in what is apparently a fit of reckless daring. Or the pathetic urge to make Potter feel better, which Draco won’t examine further (it works, anyway, Potter forgets his failed attempt at food to glare at Draco).

“No, if I wanted you dead there would be far easier ways than cooking. And Grimmauld would never forgive me.” Potter looks far too serious for comfort and Draco doesn’t know what he is supposed to answer to that. Is he even required to say something or do the manners of high society allow him to leave , after this veiled threat?

Theo would know, he always finds his way out of social obligations while remaining perfectly amiable and impeccably polite. Blaise would just get up and leave, Draco could simply follow him under the guise of scolding him. Pansy would have a wonderfully entertaining, unsettlingly threatening answer for Potter to chew on. Draco needs them here, needs all of them and needs them now. He cannot deal with all of this, with _Potter_ , on his own.

“Come on, don’t you trust me?” The question is ridiculous, even if one were to graciously gloss over Potter’s confession to having considered his murder.

Of course Draco doesn’t trust him! Why should he? Potter took every chance he had to shove Draco down, his usual charming and sparkling self earning Potter pats on the head and the house cup too, for good measure. Trust is not a thing given lightly, and Draco offered it only once (foolish and ill-advised as it was).

“No, Potter, shocking as that must be for you, I do _not_ trust you.” Potter has the gall to gape at him, green puppy eyes wide in hurt, as if _Draco_ was the one being unreasonable.

Draco hates that it makes him feel bad, just a bit.

“Fine, don’t trust me then.” Potter sounds like a petulant brat; Draco doesn’t feel bad anymore. “But you agreed to at least try, so unless you want to prove me right about Slytherins all being lying, twisting snakes …”

Potter is manipulating him, Draco is well aware of that, but Potter shows surprising skill and the words bring back memory after memory of sneering faces and scornful looks, of being deemed untrustworthy because he has different priorities, every moment that Draco wished he could make people face the prejudice they were so fond of accusing him of. Potter doesn’t even have to mention any of that, trailing off to let Draco fill in the blank and raising his eyebrow in challenge.

Draco doesn’t break eye contact as he aggressively takes a bite, fuelled by anger and adrenaline and the need to prove Potter _wrong_. He tries to take as little as possible, to not look down at what he is eating, but they are far off concerns. Nothing is as important as defying Potter.

Draco nearly spits it all out again. Potter smirks at him.

The food is worse than even Draco could have predicted. His teeth make an unpleasant crunching noise as they grind on something rock hard, layer after layer of disgustingly soggy and squishy _stuff_ , filling his mouth with sour sauce; like biting onto a sponge. It’s the most revolting thing imaginable and Draco doesn’t care about decorum, doesn’t care about Potter’s watchful eyes judging him and that soon everyone will know about this moment in embarrassing detail — Draco takes the first glass he can reach and eagerly downs its contents, swallowing the chunks of inedible mass weighing heavy on his tongue and hoping to get rid of the taste.

The glass is disappointingly small, Draco feels like he could drain an entire ocean, salt and fish excrements included.

“Now, was that really _so_ bad?” Potter asks him, smiling because he knows _exactly_ how bad it was. Draco can’t say why he doesn’t rip Potter’s non-existent cooking abilities to shreds, why he doesn’t point out any of the numerous problems and instead says nothing at all. He blames it on the food affecting his brain and decides not to dwell on it. He can rub Potter’s face in his own inferiority later.

How did Potter convince him to eat that? Draco _knew_ it would be repugnant, had Potter’s own reaction to judge as if the first sight of them wasn’t enough to settle Draco’s opinion. And yet he ate it, because Potter’s despondency tugged at his heart, because Potter knew how to twist their agreement into a threat, a formula that could force Draco into doing anything at all as long as Potter finds a flimsy connection to their marriage.

“We need to talk about the terms of our deal.” Draco won’t allow Potter to exploit the vague phrasing again, Merlin knows what he might come up with next to amuse himself at Draco’s expanse.

“Wow, way to ruin the mood, Malfoy.” Potter sighs, idly poking his food-lump and presenting Grimmauld with the picture of dejected-yet-devoted-husband. Draco doesn’t have time for this, for Potter’s infuriating acting or the tiny smirks he flashes Draco now and then, always reminding him that it is indeed nothing but a grand show and Potter has not miraculously gotten a new personality.

“You watched me choke on that horrible excuse for food you cooked, personally I think that ‘ruined the mood’ rather spectacularly already.” Potter scowls at him. Draco tires to convince himself that Potter scowling is a good thing, that it’s better than the pleasantly smiling mask and that Draco can’t afford to forget which one is the truth. Part of Draco misses the pretty lie.

“For the record, I would have helped you if I thought you were in actual danger. You are just being dramatic now.” Draco would like to argue that being dramatic is far from the insult Potter seems to intend it as (what a dull thing would life be without some drama?) but Potter rudely continues on before he gets the chance. “What do you want to discuss ? I seem to remember things all being very simple.”

Draco’s point exactly, they forced a complicated relationship into simplified terms and it left giant holes to their plan. Not that it seems to bother Potter, who didn’t yet understand that if _he_ could use them to his advantage, Draco would be able to do things far beyond his most ambitious dreams within the fickle conditions they set. Maybe Draco should leave it like that, excuse himself and start plotting his revenge — his eyes land on the appetisers wilting in the middle of the table and Draco knows he can’t do it. There is more waiting where that came from, undiscovered depth of horror, and Draco isn’t willing to gamble with his life like this.

“We need limits, Potter, boundaries. I need to know what you expect from me and I need to know exactly how far you want this marriage to go.” There, that sounds reasonable enough. Draco keeps his face carefully blank, not giving Potter anything to

“Jesus, Malfoy, I just want you to behave like you at least tolerate me and not gloat every time Grimmauld shows me I'm not welcome here. Surely that’s not too much to ask?” It actually is quite a lot to ask. Draco is certain Potter is aware of that too, but he already agreed so the point is moot. “You are the one this snobbish house approves of, just tell me what a perfect pure-blood marriage entails so we can check all the boxes.”

Because it’s that easy; figures, that Potter would think that. There is no archetype for marriages, hardly any firm roles you have to keep to. Smile to make sure everyone knows how happy you are, make sure you don’t lose any of your fortune and produce an heir so the bloodline — oh, consummation.

Draco feels sick, and this time it has nothing to do with Potter’s cooking. Sure, they talked about it before, but it was a joke back then, something Pansy brought up to amuse herself.

“Malfoy? Come on, don’t faint on me.” Trust Potter and his obnoxiousness to save Draco from losing himself in his thoughts.

Still, Potter looking at him expectantly means Draco now has to share his realisation and really, he had hoped they could perhaps avoid this. A ridiculous idea, of course, childishly naive, but Draco had hoped nonetheless.

“Most of it should be easy enough, though you will have to quit complaining about me to your friends, seeing how pure-blood marriages are closer to alliances and those need to present a united front.” That’s something of an exaggeration, Draco must admit, but he doesn’t like the thought of Potter badmouthing him in his own house. He doesn’t like the thought of Potter badmouthing him in general, people have the unfortunate tendency to take his word as gospel, but Draco can’t really stop Potter from doing it altogether. A minor technicality he doesn’t intend to point out.

Potter scrunches his face up into a grimace but nods, as if he expected that. Then he motions for Draco to go on, because he doesn’t like planning their domestic bliss any more than Draco does. Right, so much for the expected, uncomplicated bit.

“Then there is the matter of …” Draco trails off and makes a crude hand gesture, hoping Potter will catch on on his own. He doesn’t, frowning at Draco in exasperation. Right, no way around it then. Draco takes a deep breath, remembers he is behaving absolutely ridiculous because it should _not_ be this difficult to say, and forces out: “pure-blood marriages need to be consummated before they are binding.”

The words are rushed and garbled together, barely audible over the surging of his blood. Draco can’t decide what to hope for, that Potter understood and he doesn’t have to repeat himself or that Potter _didn’t_ understand and they can go back to insults and subtle murder-threats.

Potter’s face lights up in understanding and Draco’s decision is made, he wishes he could subtly retreat and _never_ have this conversation.

“So you want to have sex, that is what you are saying?” Potter asks, because apparently this isn’t excruciating enough yet. It also shows that Potter didn’t listen to him at all, because Draco said nothing about _wanting_.

 _Should_ he have said something about wanting? Is that how the Conversation is supposed to go? Would that make it easier?

Draco doesn’t even mind being rude anymore, anything to avoid having this Talk.

“I know I’m devastatingly handsome, Malfoy, but you can stop staring now.” Then Potter _winks_ and Draco honestly doesn’t think he is physically capable of looking anywhere else.

Which is irredeemably stupid. It’s not like Potter is going to _jump_ him the second he looks away. Nonetheless, Draco feels better knowing what Potter’s face does. He doesn’t _understand_ it, doesn’t have the slightest idea what Potter is thinking, but should something drastically change Draco will notice. Which is all he has in terms of comfort at the moment.

“I’m simply answering the question, Potter. You asked about the requirements of a pure-blood marriage that Grimmauld would accept and one of these factors is the consummation.” Draco almost manages to bring it out smoothly this time. Maybe it will get easier with every repetition? Because that is pretty much what it was, a repetition of the exact same thing he already said. Draco had hoped it might break the tension strung high in the air, like a thread connecting him to Potter.

Potter hasn’t stopped _looking_ at him and Draco doesn’t know what it means but he doesn’t like it, not at all. It makes his skin itch, makes something in his gut coil unpleasantly and makes his heart race. Draco is uncomfortable, scrambling desperately for his shattered composure and wishing to be alone, to find some respite from whatever _this_ is.

“You _can_ say sex, you know? It’s not going to dirty that precious pure blood of yours. Might do wonders for your prudishness, too.” Potter smirks, leaning closer to watch Draco squirm. “I have to admit, you don’t look half bad with that blush giving you some colour.”

That’s it, that's as much invasion of privacy as Draco can take thrust upon him without warning.

Draco flees the room to the sound of mocking laughter and when he finally reaches his suite, he locks the door behind himself.

He is shaking all over, held up only by the door against his back, gasping attempts to keep the air in his lungs. He imagines he can still hear Potter’s laugh, can feel him looming close enough to feel his breath on his face. It’s been a long time since Draco has been this grateful for a locked door, shielding him about as much as a fluffy blanket pulled over his head but an effective illusion of shutting out the world.

Besides, Draco is reasonably certain Potter won’t follow him. Deliberate cruelty isn’t Potter’s style. Potter saw a moment of weakness and he struck, deep and true and ripping the wound wide open.

Draco will be prepared next time. He will wear his stoicism like armour and anything Potter might say will shatter against it.


	6. Chapter 6

“I don’t really see the problem here, darling. You have been drooling over Potter for years, constantly talking about him and his oh so green eyes — called them sparkling emeralds and burning and all-consuming, I believe, which is rather embarrassingly infatuated — his smiling and his scowling and his anger issues — trust me when I say you have been thirsting for a chance to tumble into bed with Potter.” And that’s it, all Pansy has to say on the topic. That simple.

But then, it had always been easy for Pansy. Pansy isn’t afraid of defying all the rules, doing whatever she wants with whoever she wants without consideration for traditional values. Pansy claims it allows her to breathe, free and rebellious and learning all life has to offer, learning all _she herself_ has to offer. Miraculously, she breathes all while maintaining the facade responsible fairness, a feature proudly shown of by her parents.

The whole thing almost sounded … _tempting_ , when Pansy talked. About passion and closeness, about shared experiences and forging something unique and warm between people, a bond, even when it doesn’t last long. Knowing glances and warm touches, affection blooming and expression of feelings in tender whispers — Draco wants that, so badly.

He clings to that, to wanting what Pansy describes when she had too much to drink to stick to her usual dirty jokes. He doesn’t want the rest of it, the brutal efficiency in short meet ups with only one purpose, the exchange of saliva and tongues, cold and hard and fast and loud, people screaming and beds (if they make it to the bed, that is, a thought that makes Draco shudder in horror) shaking. Pansy talks about that too, a glint in her eyes and the sort of longing Draco never understood. He gave up trying to empathise with _that_ a long time ago.

He used to ask more, awkward and bumbling questions that he wasn’t sure he even wanted answered, and people used to humour him. Blaise would tell him about sharing pleasure, about a warm coiling in the gut and tingling in the tips of fingers, of indulgence and languor and finding the right person. Pansy would smirk and interject something about there being _multiple_ right persons sometimes, don’t be boring, and then would go on revel in exploits that make Draco’s stomach turn just listening to. He learnt not to show his discomfort on his face, hoping to avoid Pansy noticing and laughing at him and his _childish innocence and proper prudishness_.

Apparently he is too up-tight to fully experience all facets of being human. Talking to Pansy and Blaise was always more mortifying than it was helpful, just as likely to hear something he longs for but doesn’t know how to get as he is to be throwing up after, mind full of impressions not even his own but already too much. Theo had been the only person who was actually _helpful_ , answering questions with a clinical detachment that might have been born out of awkwardness but suited Draco well enough.

By now Draco stopped asking. He has reached an age where people expect him to have it all figured out, the questions answered over his teenage years of growing into his body and mind, stumbling from one wild adventure into the next and coming out at the end with a map of himself, a full guide to who Draco Malfoy is and what there is to know. Everyone else knows who they are and what they want, how to pursue that and how to treasure what they have. Somewhere between the war and establishing peace, they all grew up. And Draco is still here, all alone and confused.

Draco sometimes feels he is missing something, like he doesn’t see the glaringly obvious everyone else is enthralled by, like he skipped the announcement of a great secret. Draco feels like he watches them from the outside, nose pressed against the window, the inside distorted by the glass and giving Draco false impression of what exactly he is looking at. Because surely, if it were as dreadful as it looks no one would do it. No, it must be Draco who has problems with his perception, at times staring in hopes of answering his questions and finding his way through the glass to join the others and then too scared to even touch the glass, wishing he could forget what he saw.

So when suddenly there is a marriage to be consummated with a man Pansy assures him Draco has been interested in forever, well, it seems like Draco is dragged past the newly flimsy barrier of glass. Draco wants both, for it to be a solid wall shielding him and to not be there at all, to be finally embraced and accepted. Maybe Potter is the right person Blaise had been hinting at? Draco hopes he is.

Draco has enough of this confusion, of asking stupid questions and being looked at with pity. He doesn’t want to wonder anymore, to question what it means that he doesn't understand that basic emotion, such an essential part of humanity. It’s all gone on long enough, Draco will pull himself together and get on with it already, no more hesitating and stalling. He is a married man now, it’s expected of him to share his body, the distance he always kept no longer a virtue.

Pansy would have objected if there was anything out of the norm here, anything that needs considering or that would save Draco from making this decision. But Pansy didn’t stop him so much as cheer him on, pushing him further and further like she has done for years, always telling him he will have to experience it to understand it. But Draco has been scared, scrambling for excuses and reaching for straws to be allowed to stay in his comfortable reservedness, wearing it like an additional layer of clothes shielding him.

Draco is still scared, still unsure and hiding, but his hand is forced by the ancient laws of marriage. It doesn’t matter anymore what he wants, he is being pushed through the glass and can only hope that Potter will be there to catch him.

Draco feels nauseous, frail, sick.

“Are you alright, darling?” Pansy asks, her voice drawing him out of his grim thoughts and back into her garden, to the sun shining onto his face and the tea still steaming. She looks at him with concern, forehead wrinkled and head cocked to the side like a bird as she tries to figure out what is wrong with him. Draco wishes he could tell her, wishes he knew the right answer, the right words.

“Yes, of course I am.” Pansy is not convinced, and Draco’s voice is so shaky that he can’t blame her for not trusting him. “Really, I’m perfectly fine, merely a tad distracted today.”

She doesn’t believe him, far too accustomed to sniffing out lies to fall for his stumbling efforts. If Draco is lucky, she will decide to let it go, to let him make his own mistakes and learn the lesson the only way that ever seems to stick with him: falling on his face under great pains and humiliation.

That actually doesn’t sound preferable after all, is there a third option to hope for?

Before Draco can make up his mind about what he would like his future to look like, Pansy nods, having decided to leave him to his stubborn pride for now. That doesn’t bode well for Draco’s fate but at least it grants him more time to spectacularly over-think his ridiculous fears. Small mercies.

“Good, that means we can finally talk about something else than your issues with Potter then. Do keep me updated though, now that it gets interesting.” It only takes Pansy one wink to dispel the solemnity in the room, usurping it with her usual easy charm. Still, Draco knows she meant it when she asked for updates. She rarely shows it this openly, but she always worried about Draco’s disconnect to the rest of the world. “On to the real problems: where do I take Granger if I want it to be the most amazing date she has ever been on?”

Draco tries hard not to groan, he really does. Pansy is a good friend, one of the best as she has just proven again, but he grows tired of hearing her rave about Granger and Weasley. Pansy can go on and on about them, Weasley’s freckles and Granger’s curls. She has been begging Draco to teach her chess strategies — that he himself only half remembers and never cared for —so she can impress Weasley (who is apparently quite the brilliant player, though Draco doesn’t trust her judgement on either of them anymore) and has spent extraordinary amounts of time in the library, supporting Granger in her research (Draco suspects she has been more of a distraction than a help, but he doesn’t point that out). He knows her thoughts on their respective merits and advantages better than Pansy herself seems to know and if he has to patiently sit through another agonised debate over not being able to choose between them he will personally arrange their immediate wedding, all three of them because clearly _one_ insufferable Gryffindor isn’t enough for Pansy.

That particular thought breaks Draco’s composure, a sigh escaping him and interrupting Pansy’s lovesick monologue. Pansy doesn’t even really stop, just glares at him and swats him over the head (going for the hair, because she knows exactly how to hurt Draco) and continuing on as if nothing happened.

Right, Draco will listen to her, _again_.

* * *

Movie night at Seamus’ and Deans place was always a bad idea. They are too many people to fit into their small living room comfortably, which meant half of them were forced to sit on the floor (Harry’s excuse of ‘I died for all of you’ didn’t even hold a month before he, too, was cruelly pushed onto the floor so Ginny could claim his spot on the couch) and there was absolutely no concept of personal space, which Harry has to admit isn’t too bad.

The food is always a gamble, Seamus usually orders take-away because he isn’t allowed in the kitchen and Dean doesn’t do well with the pressure of cooking for many people, so he restrict himself to artfully arranging plates. Depending on how satisfied he is with the result, they might even get to eat it (Harry vividly remembers times Dean was too frustrated and threw it all away, in plain sight of his starving guests, and other arguably worse times when he was too proud of what he created to let anyone touch it before he had seen his fill and took in every tiny detail for _future references_ , whatever that means).

And as if all that wasn’t enough, Harry has to actually get up and leave the house to experience it. That is the greatest indignity of them all, making Harry do all the work for a mediocre evening. They should have just stuck to Grimmauld, everyone had agreed that is by far the best option, hatefully poking cushions aside.

But Harry needed to get out of the house, needed to get away from Malfoy. Things have been strained between them lately, even more strained than usual. Malfoy is clearly avoiding him, going as far as fleeing a room when they happen to end up in too close proximity. Grimmauld isn’t happy about that, blaming Harry because there is no way the perfect pure-blood could be a cowardly prude who broke his promise.

“I hear you started cooking for a man you don’t at all want to impress?” Ginny doesn’t even pretend to watch the movie, turned towards Harry and studying him intently. Why hadn’t Harry learnt from his past mistakes and started avoiding her yet?

Ginny always seems to know everything there is to know (and even more in form of wild conclusions that have nothing at all to do with reality) about the newest low of his life, and not once is _Harry_ the one who told her. Her scarily perceptive judgement is not something he wants to deal with, not when the world is already crashing down around him. Sure, Ginny insists that she is trying to help him and Harry is sure she thinks she does the right thing, but people prodding and pushing him into one direction usually ends in him running at high speed in the opposite one. So Harry doesn’t tell Ginny, because he might be as over their failed relationship as possible, but his brain is still wired to at best ignore anything she might have to say. Neither of them needs that, really.

And yet Ginny always _knows_ and she always _prods_ until something blows up. Which means someone told her, against Harry's expressed wishes not to. He thought it was Ron for the longest time — who knows what siblings talk about all day — but Harry since came to the realisation that Ron is too loyal for that. He might not agree and berate him, force Harry to listen to his opinions over and over, but Ron wouldn’t go behind his back. Not even under the guise of helping Harry.

With Ron eliminated there is only Hermione left, who does have a distressing fondness of proving to other people how much of an idiot Harry is. If only Harry could _prove_ anything, then he could demand that she stopped discussing his problems with his far too invested ex-girlfriend and he would finally get some peace. Well, that's unlikely to happen because Hermione does what she wants, but Harry might be able to make her feel guilty about it.

“Ignoring me isn’t going to help you, you know? And don’t even try to change the topic, I need some updates on the Malfoy Situation.” Ginny throws popcorn at him to get his attention, which is not only rude but also totally unnecessary. Also, the Malfoy Situation? Is that what they call it now?

Harry scowls at her, which earns him more flying popcorn. This time, however, Harry is prepared and easily catches them all with his mouth, making a big show out of happily munching her food.

Ginny sitting up straighter and narrowing her eyes at him is the only warning Harry gets before she is firing them again, one kernel of popcorn after the other with quick pace and high precision, forcing Harry to duck and jump and contort to catch them all. But Harry isn’t the youngest Seeker in a century for nothing, and he never backs down from challenge. Harry is going to catch them all, every single one of them, until Ginny has no popcorn left and has to admit defeat.

“Guys please, I’m trying to watch a movie here!” Neville's voice cuts through their fun, halting both Ginny and Harry in their movements. They had completely forgotten about the movie.

Then Ginny throws popcorn at Neville to make him squawk and upend his own bowl, spreading popcorn _everywhere_ and on everyone, and before Harry knows what is happening, he is wildly picking up all the crumbs he can grab to hurl them at anyone who stands unmoving for too long in the sudden chaos. He flings the stuff with both hands, snatches as many as he can out of the air and tries to ignore the other ones pelting down onto him.

Harry sees Seamus hiding behind Dean, taking cover and peeking up now and again to take some well-aimed shots. Ron stands in the middle of the room, uncaring of being everyone’s prime target and reflecting most of the things thrown his way, sending them on to someone else. Neville and Hermione have taken up residence behind the couch, mostly safe from the battle and gathering ammunition up from the floor, only coming up from behind their shelter to unleash their combined forces onto one poor victim. But Ginny is sneaking up behind them, taking advantage of their distraction in picking popcorn from the rug to end their reign of terror and — someone yells and something falls with a heavy thump, and they all freeze.

Seamus and Dean are laying on the ground, toppled onto each other and laughing, the cause of their fall unclear but apparently nothing drastic. Which means Harry can throw his popcorn onto them without feeling too bad about exploiting their unfortunate circumstances. With a blood curling war cry everyone resumes their attack.

* * *

Ron looks like he considers obliviating himself. Honestly, Harry can’t fault him for that, he wished the same often enough. It’s no use though, Harry can’t stop thinking about Malfoy, how prim and proper and elegant he is and all the filthy things Harry wants to do to him. Not since Malfoy brought up sex, that is, Harry was perfectly fine (or convincingly pretending to be, at least) before Malfoy told him they would need to have sex. Harry had somehow forgotten about that minor detail. Consummate the marriage, he had said, blushing in splotchy flecks of crimson. Harry had wondered how far down that blush goes before he could stop himself, and his mind had gone rampant and frolicking through a garden of lust and fornication.

If Harry doesn’t get a new brain, neither does Ron. And because Ron is his best friend — as Harry pointedly reminded him as he tried to flee the moment he realised exactly what it was Harry wanted to talk about — Ron sat patiently and listened to Harry’s dilemma. Sure, there is a constant grimace on his face that got worse with every minute Harry didn’t stop talking about Malfoy and might be stuck on his face forever, but Ron listened and that’s all that counts. Because Ron can tell him what to do about it.

“I really don’t know what you want me to say, mate.” Well, that much for his brilliant plan of letting Ron solve it.

“Just, tell me what I do. You might not have noticed, but we are talking about _Malfoy_ here. He’s an evil, snobby, snivelling pimple-toad,” Ron chokes on his beer and Harry graciously hands him a napkin, absently slapping his back, “but he is also really hot and he got all flustered and squirmy and I think he probably is a virgin —”

“For the love of Merlin, stop!” The entire pub falls silent at Ron’s outburst, people grumbling and staring, evenly parted between disgruntled and intrigued. Harry waves at them, grateful that they chose a Muggle pub and they are getting attention for the odd choice of words and not the odd scar on his forehead.

As Ron does nothing more interesting than grumbling too low for their curious audience to understand and mopping up his spilt beer (and Harry casts a discreet charm to remind them all they have more pressing matters to attend to) the hubbub dies down rather quickly.

“Alright, lets talk about this objectively, without all the nausea inducing details on Malfoy's appearance.” Ron nods in decision, then glares at Harry until he nods too. It’s the less fun way, focused on all the worst aspects of Malfoy, but since Harry — when he is in his right mind — doesn’t actually want to bed Malfoy, that might not be the worst approach. Certainly better than what Harry did so far, drooling and digging his own grave.

“You married him because that would ostensibly convince Grimmauld to back off and stop treating you like a squatter one needs to get rid of, right?” Not really a question this time, more of a collection of facts and premise. Harry nods anyway.

“Well, then it seems to me that the marriage must qualify in the eyes of Grimmauld or you might as well divorce the git. The really archaic traditions expect a public consummation ceremony, you know? I think in comparison you got really lucky there.” Ron looks like the conversation is physically painful to him and he would rather be anywhere else. It’s a bit insulting, especially since Harry had to sit through hours of Ron drooling over Hermione, which was very weird and uncomfortable, and lately Parkinson too and really, Harry could have been a lot more graphic and made this even worse for Ron.

Maybe he should, because Ron seems to have completely missed the problem here. If that is what playing by Ron’s boring rules brings him, Harry doesn’t want to do it anymore.

“Yes that isn’t the problem here, Ron. _The problem_ is how unfairly hot he is. He does this thing where he just stares at me and considers just how small the words he has to use to explain something to me should be and he feels all smug and clever and I want to make him forget all the fancy words he knows, kiss them right out of him until he doesn’t remember how to say anything but my name. I want to break his perfect composure and make him blush and beg and then —” Ron silences him, _literally_ casts a _Silencio_ over Harry. Which is _rude_ and effective and reduces Harry to glaring at him.

Ron isn’t impressed with his glaring, content to enjoy the silence and ignore Harry’s gesticulating. It’s situations like this that really show Ron grew up with siblings.

“I’m only going to say this once and then I will pretend this conversation never happened, understood?” Ron is lucky Harry can’t speak — or maybe he experienced stuff like this often enough to know better than lifting the spell too soon — and all Harry can do is nod again and feel like a scolded child. Weird comparison considering what he is being scolded for, but Harry quickly moves on from that thought.

“You obviously fancy the bloke, for unfathomable reasons — no! Don’t explain them again, I swear I will never lift that spell if you plan on doing more drooling. Where was I? Yes, you want him and as long as Malfoy consents, I don’t think there is anything that needs further discussion.” Ron thinks for a moment, making sure there is nothing he forgot and then, _finally,_ frees Harry to speak again.

“But he is _Malfoy,_ ” Harry shouts almost immediately, making the entire pub focus on them again and Ron sigh like a man who really should have expected that but hoped for some respite anyway.

Harry doesn’t bother with subtlety this time, snapping their attention back to what they are supposed to do with a rushed flick of his wand. Next time they might as well stay in the wizarding world, if they can’t have an uninterrupted talk anyway.

“I mean, I hate his guts and there is all this ugly history of name calling and me almost killing him and then saving each other and then there was this really awkward letter exchange when I owled him back his wand — do you remember that? He was rude and not at all grateful, that prick, I think his mother forced him to write that answer honestly, but now he is constantly in my sight and he always wears these bespoke clothes and they are all pretentious and scream of money but that _suits_ him and — surely that is complicated enough without adding sex?” _That’s_ the problem, Harry suddenly realises.

It’s not the sex, Harry would be _thrilled_ if it were just sex, but he can hardly throw Malfoy out in the morning and never see him again. Because they _live_ together, Malfoy is there every time Harry turns around. There is no escaping the blond menace and if there is one thing that can make relationships more complicated, it’s sex. They would have to be adult and responsible and talk about it and as fun as flustering Malfoy was the last time, it’s not exactly a conversation Harry is eager to repeat.

Although, maybe they wouldn’t have to talk about it at all. Neither of them mentions it because that would defeat the point, but they are quite good at the denial thing. They would never have to acknowledge anything.

Harry can almost see it now, their life exactly as it is now but without having to suppress his urges and desires. He could just shut Malfoy up when he is talking shit, could kiss him quiet and give him something else to do. He could channel his frustrations with the brat into something more pleasant than banging his fists against the wall and instead bang _Malfoy_ against the wall. Or when he lies awake again because he can’t sleep and bitterly remembers all these ‘ultimate tips to fall asleep quickly’ listing either completely useless and borderline ridiculous things or, if they are daring, recommend orgasms against insomnia. Harry isn’t sure if that would actually work, but he would sure like to _try_. And Malfoy has problems sleeping too, he tries to hide it but Harry isn’t stupid.

Really, this sex thing could become a mutually beneficial agreement, with the added advantage of getting Grimmauld off his back.

“More complicated than it is now, you mean?” Ron asks, dry as dust, and yes fine, he might have a point there. Looking at how things are now, it truly cannot get anymore complicated than that.

“Right, I’m going to fuck him then.” Ron chokes again and Harry takes pity on him but really, he thinks Ron exaggerated on this one.


	7. Chapter 7

Draco has managed to hide from Potter for a week now. As well as you can hide from someone when the house you share doesn’t know personal boundaries and is insistent on pushing you together. Draco does his best to sneak out of the rooms they suddenly find themselves shut in, but Grimmauld has turned horribly on him, cutting off all his escape routes. It has been a week of tense silences and speculating looks from Potter’s side of the room that Draco did his best to ignore. If it were at all feasible, Draco would have gladly gone on like this.

Unfortunately, they agreed upon a weekly dinner (date night, Potter said yesterday with a suggestive wink that made Draco seriously consider climbing out of the window to get away from the implication and expectations heavy in the air) and Draco cannot back out of that one. He’s a Slytherin, and Slytherins keep their promises.

 _Mostly_ , they mostly keep their promises _._ Draco didn’t cancel dinner, but he also didn’t cook it himself. He made Blaise cook, because this evening will be difficult enough without Draco burning down their kitchen. He has no intention of telling Potter, either, because Potter would throw a fit and complain about the injustice of Draco hiring a cook and expecting Potter do to all the chopping and stirring by himself. Draco doesn’t need that.

“Dessert is arranged — anything else you need me to do that you can claim credit for to impress lover boy?” Blaise smirks at him, as he has been doing all day, coming up with ridiculous nicknames for Potter and harshly criticising each and every outfit that Draco considered wearing. He got away with it only because Draco desperately needed him to cook their dinner, a fact Blaise smugly exploited.

But dinner is done now, Blaise said so himself, so Draco sees no reason to put up with it any longer.

“Apart from leaving my house and never calling Potter that again, no. You are dismissed, thank you for your service.” Draco moves to usher Blaise out through the floo (or the front door, he doesn’t really care either way) but Blaise is stronger than him and stubbornly resistant.

“Don’t be rude, Draco. Maybe I would like to officially meet that elusive husband of yours, tell Potter to treat you right or end up publicly humiliated and fleeing to spend the rest of his days on a dull, isolated island in some freezing ocean.” The things is, Draco knows he means it.

Blaise is worried about him, they all are. Maybe worried isn’t the right word; Draco is hardly in any danger, nothing compared to what they all went through the last few years. There is absolutely no reason to be concerned.

Regardless, Draco isn’t too content with his current situation — his father absent and dedicating most of his time to the Manor gardens, all of his mother’s expectations for his life, the house, their future weighing down on him, a marriage he never could have dreamed of but certainly never wanted, not with all the ties attached to marrying someone binding him down — and he has never been good enough of a liar to pretend for the sake of his friends. They are fiercely protective and, if it would make anything better, Draco would have been long since widowed under mysterious circumstances, or at the very least divorced.

“Don’t let yourself be pushed into doing something you don’t want to do, not by the house or the stupid traditions and certainly not Potter, okay?” Blaise has gripped him at the shoulders, holding his eyes and waiting for Draco to nod in understanding and reassurance.

Sometimes Draco gets overwhelmed by how much they care, how much they pick up on without him having to openly admit to it. Like his completely disproportionate dread of this evening. So, grateful and terrified, Draco only manages a weak nod that will simply have to be enough for Blaise.

It’s not, Blaise doesn’t buy it for a second.

“You will be fine, Draco. You only agreed to dinner, nothing more. All you have to do is sit there and eat — a recipe of my mother’s third husband, so you know it’s good — and then you politely bid Potter goodnight and leave. If you should need anything — I mean it, absolutely anything at all — we are all just a floo call away. You'll be fine.” With Blaise standing here, squeezing his shoulders to steady him and eyes blazing with conviction. Draco almost believes him.

“Of course I will be, it’s just dinner with Potter. Potter who hates me and is determined to sleep with me to fulfil an archaic contract I never signed. Noting to fear about that.” The joking part of this falls flat, his voice trembling and hands shaking where he clutches Blaise’s shirt, but it’s several steps better than nodding. It seems good enough for Blaise, at least, who glances at the clock hanging behind Draco, groans in what is clearly a wish for more time and is then gone, with a last reassuring squeeze, an oddly comforting kiss to the forehead and one last reminder to call should he need to. And then Draco is alone.

Alone in a kitchen full of delicious food waiting under stasis charms (Blaise hadn't liked that, stasis charms leave a faint trace in the taste that he wrinkled his nose at, but Draco seriously doubts Potter is sophisticated enough to pick up on it) and considering changing into a sixth outfit, when he hears Potter arriving. The urge to flee into his bedroom under the guise of changing again becomes stronger.

Before Draco can make up his mind on that one (whether it would be horribly cowardly and if he cares even if it is), Potter saunters into the kitchen as if he owns it. Which, technically, he does. But it was _Draco’s_ place not seconds ago, his little sanctuary with Blaise still lingering and his words the loudest thing in Draco’s mind. Now it’s _Potter’s_ and Draco promptly forgets all appeals to logic and his friends just one fire away.

“Goodness, Malfoy! Are you expecting to feed an entire army?” Potter looks around the room in wide-eyed astonishment, counting the plates and bowls and glasses.

Draco doesn’t answer, firstly because he isn’t in the mood for Potter’s teasing and secondly because he can’t tell him that Blaise is incapable of cooking in small portions (saying that would also blow his cover). It’s none of Potter’s business that Blaise considers food a family bonding experience, that he doesn't like eating alone and thus never cooks for less than four people. Potter is lucky enough that he gets to eat it, anything else would be greedy.

“Dinner will be served in the dinning room, Potter, so if you would get out of my kitchen now —”

“ _Your_ kitchen? Whatever happened to our marital bliss and the sharing of property?” Potter clutches one hand to his chest in a crude allusion to being wounded, every over-drawn inch the picture of a husband let down and hurt. Potter is _loud_ and he fills the room with his careless arrogance that easily crowds Draco against the outer corners, pushing and shoving and leaving him no room to breathe and think, to remember what Blaise said in the looming darkness of Potter’s expectations.

Potter sighs as Draco doesn’t react, dropping the act and going back to sniffing at the food and practically skipping through the kitchen. Draco doesn’t think he ever saw him this happy, not with Draco in the same room, not in Grimmauld.

“You are in a good mood.” Draco meant to idly comment, but instead his voice comes out wrought in suspicion and more of a question than an observation. Potter doesn’t notice. He doesn’t stop smiling either. It’s all very disconcerting.

“Yeah well, that’s because I finally made a decision and I feel really good about it.” Potter shoots him a lewd wink, the kind of expression not fit for polite company (Isn’t Draco polite company? Why is he being subjected to this?) and Draco might not know much about any of this, but it’s impossible to misunderstand its intention.

“Well, that is …” Draco trails off in undignified spluttering as Potter loses all his interest in the pots and pans, turning towards Draco and smirking.

This is all wrong, Draco thinks hysterically. They were supposed to sit down and eat Blaise’s cooking, make painful small talk to breach the even more painful silence and then Draco would have excused himself, pleaded a headache and locked himself into his room like a scared child. Not the most mature of plans, no, but if maturity means granting Potter free and total access to his body, Draco doesn’t want it.

“You see, I thought about what you said, that the marriage needs to be consummated before Grimmauld accepts it as real.” Potter is unbearably close — when did he get so close? “I think it’s worth a try, don’t you?”

Draco cannot think at all with Potter so close, petrified when faced with what is expected of him. He knew this was coming, had a whole week to prepare and even longer before that to make his peace with the vague concept of marriage, but it’s not the same as standing here.

And yet here he stands, and Potter is even _asking_ him, as if Draco has any choice in the matter. Blaise was right, agreeing to dinner is not damning in itself, but Draco also married Potter, and that was by far more foolish. That was the day he decided, ever since then he has just been postponing the inevitable.

Draco doesn’t want to do that anymore. He wants to get this over with, get through this night and then go back to life as before. Well, almost as before, or there would be no reason to suffer through this at all. Potter will go back to either spitting insults or ignoring him and Draco will have traded his amusement from Potter’s misfortunes with Grimmauld for the right to renovate the house. Basically, they will both finally get what they wanted from the moment they agreed on this ridiculous marriage.

Right, Draco can do this.

Not giving himself another second to think Draco surges forward, carried on a wave of adrenaline and a resolve to get this over with, and smashes his lips against Potter’s.

Kissing Potter is odd. It’s not what Draco was led to believe, rather more awkward than anything else. Potter’s lips are chapped under his, warm and impassive and they both just … stand there. Draco because he doesn't know what the next step is and Potter presumably because he is still in shock at Draco’s show of initiative. Well, whatever it is, it’s quite passable. He should be more relieved, perhaps, that this isn’t half as bad as he feared it would be, but Draco is more disappointed than relieved. At least, he _thinks_ he is; it’s difficult to tell, sometimes.

Draco had hoped that maybe he would find it, that thing he has been missing and yet seems so clear and inescapable to anyone else; maybe Draco would see it when it was literally shoved into his face. There is nothing though, it’s just mildly uncomfortable. This cannot possibly be what people chase so desperately.

Suddenly Potter wakes up, hands flying to Draco’s hips to grab him tightly as he kisses him back, pressing him against the wall with its force. Draco’s head hurts at the impact and he yelps in shock, something Potter takes an invitation to slip his tongue into Draco’s mouth.

It’s slimy and gross and invasive, moving around in his mouth like a slug, wresting for space and pushing in deeper and Potter is everywhere, his hands crushing Draco’s waist and teeth at his lips and it hurts, everything hurts, and Draco doesn’t want this at all, he wants Potter to — Draco pushes before he can reason with his instincts, can find a way to endure and pray it’s over soon. Everything in him screams that it’s too much, too close and Potter doesn’t stop and Draco cannot breathe — so Draco pushes him away, with all the terrified force he can muster.

Potter doesn’t move at all, leaning heavily against Draco, suppressing his struggles and taking his air, and then he is gone, his hands off of Draco and his tongue out of Draco’s mouth. Draco desperately gulps down air, every heaving gasp bringing him further away from the panic and closer to reason and logic.

Draco is fine, he is whole and alone and he is fine. He clings to that, repeats it like a mantra as his racing heart slowly evens out into a more placid rhythm.

So, that is a kiss. Draco didn’t like it.

Worse, he hated it. It’s revolting and primitive, too much saliva and slick noises echoing awfully loud in Draco’s in skull. It felt like Potter was trying to crawl into him, to consume and drain him, to take and hold and bruise. Draco feels sick at the mere memory of it, the bile raising up his throat and his stomach turning.

And this is what people go crazy over? What they call fireworks and proclaim not only the symbol of love but also its proof?

“Are you alright, Malfoy?” Potter stands a few feet away, hair mussed and glasses askew, breathing hard and staring at Draco’s lips. For one moment, Draco had forgotten about his presence.

How could he have forgotten about Potter lurking so close?

He raises a good question though: _is_ Draco alright?

No, no he is not. He feels flayed raw, invaded and violated, looted and despoiled. Draco feels a lot of things, and none of them are ‘alright’. More like, if he thinks about what happened for too long, thinks about Potter’s body pressing him down and his tongue pushing its way in, if he allows himself to be anything but coldly analytical about the feeling of Potter’s fingers digging into his skin and his teeth gnawing, Draco might actually cry over this.

That would be all kinds of embarrassing and melodramatic, Draco needs to remember that. There is a pleasant barrier between Draco’s body and his mind right now, a thin, fragile thing that lets Draco float a bit above himself. He would very much like to keep it, his only shield.

“Perfectly fine, Potter,” Draco hears himself say, far away and eerily close.

It’s not the truth, far from it, but it’s better this way. They already started, they might as well go all the way now. Before Draco never gathers the courage to initiate anything again and they are forever stuck. No, this will be how Draco planned, gritting his teeth and thinking of something pleasant, no profound epiphanies about humanities oldest secret and no cowardly retreat. Draco prepared himself for this, from the moment he first learnt about the consummation. He can do this.

Just, maybe he doesn’t need Potter’s tongue in his mouth again. Or anywhere near it.

“Shall we move this to the bedroom, then? No more kissing though, I’ll have to insist on that,” Draco says and smiles, ignoring everything in him screaming to call Blaise (because he is not a child, he is a grown and married man and he does _not_ need to be rescued, he _chose_ this) and doesn’t think about what will happen behind closed doors.

It’s nothing to fear anyway, it might not be fun but it’s nothing to fear. People have survived it under far more dire circumstances, Draco will survive this too.

Potter doesn’t need much convincing, taking Draco’s words at face value and grabbing his hand, tugging him into his bedroom.

* * *

Sex, Harry learns, doesn’t solve anything. He knew sleeping with Malfoy would make everything more complicated, he _knew_ it would, but Ron had scoffed and said it could hardly get more complicated and Harry, like a _fool_ , had believed him.

So then he fucked Malfoy and it was amazing. Not the best he ever had, sure, but pretty decent nonetheless. Especially considering Malfoy was a virgin, even when he didn’t admit to it in so many words. He didn't need to say it anyway, Harry could have told alone form the way he kissed. There was something hesitant about all of Malfoy’s movements, something unsure and pliant, only too happy to follow Harry’s lead. And lead he did, gentle and careful, because he might not like the git but no one deserves painful sex (unless it’s been agreed upon before and everyone consented). Malfoy barely consented to the fairly tame basics Harry kept them to, first skittish like a young foal and then suddenly almost impassive. That’s alright though, Harry will coax him out of his shell, they are only just beginning.

That is precisely where things are getting complicated, though. Malfoy doesn’t seem interested in a repeat performance.

He didn’t initiate anything after that first night (not even a kiss, though Malfoy was oddly against kissing anyway, so maybe it’s not surprising he didn’t try that again) and also refused all of Harry’s advances. It’s unbelievably frustrating, to know what Malfoy looks like, flushed and spread out on the bed for Harry, to know what his skin tastes like and what his hair feel like when gripped in passion, and to have any chance of getting to experience it again withheld.

Malfoy is like a drug, Harry can’t get enough of him after getting a first taste, relentlessly seeking that pleasure again and always being met with Malfoy’s cold refusal. There are so many things Harry wants to do to him, wants to do _with_ him. The fantasies never seem to stop. Harry doesn’t bother denying it anymore, not when he needs to focus all his efforts on not just grabbing Malfoy and bending him to his will. It’s incredibly difficult to withstand Malfoy’s allure after admitting to himself that it’s there, but Harry can do it. If Malfoy wants to play stubborn and imperious, wants to be wooed and conquered, Harry will do that.

He would even be more than content to do that — he always loved the thrill of the chase, golden Snatches or snobbish pricks — if it weren’t for Grimmauld. Grimmauld, who apparently still judges Harry unworthy of living inside it’s walls. Seriously, if this house doesn’t end its tantrum soon, Harry is going to call an exorcist or something. They would probably get the shock of their life, finding all the magic activity here and attributing it to evil forces (they wouldn’t be too wrong either, this _is_ a Black house after all).

Harry doesn’t know what he needs to do to prove himself deserving of a house that isn’t antagonistic. He married a pure-blood, even one with ties to the Black family, the marriage was consummated and they both agreed to live maturely and cordially next to each other. That doesn’t seem to be enough, though they both kept remarkably well to the agreement. There is only so much fighting and insulting you can do when you barely talk.

And yet Grimmauld asks for more and Harry has no idea what he could possibly have left to give. Marrying Malfoy already was his last, desperate attempt. It should have worked. What else is there left to do — blood transfusion so _Harry_ is the one with blood from the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black? Somehow he suspects vampirism might not impress Grimmauld. The murder might, though. Harry should note that down, right after the exorcism he needs to schedule.

Until then, it seems they’ll have to just go on like this, placidly sitting in the same room, Harry yearning and Malfoy pretending to study his secret plans. Not what Harry expected, not what Harry expected at all. He thought Malfoy might share his blueprints, if only to rub them under Harry’s nose and show off how brilliant he is. They would fight about what modifications Malfoy is allowed to do with the house, because fighting is what they _do_ , and then Malfoy would bring up that Harry already agreed to anything and everything covered by the term ‘renovation’ and be all smug and self-satisfied, because that is what _he_ does, and Harry would have to concede the point and then pin Malfoy against a wall and kiss that obnoxious smirk off his face.

It could be almost domestic, their own brand of it. And sure, this isn’t what he pictured, but Harry always wanted a family. He had hoped that it would be a better one than a prejudiced house and difficult-on-principle husband. But to get nothing at all? To be stuck in a marriage with Malfoy, who expects him to perform tricks for his attention (which again, wouldn’t be too bad, Harry likes proving Malfoy wrong after all, but it would be nice if Malfoy were to give him _any_ indication that this is really what he wants) and probably wouldn’t consider having children if they would grow up to cure cancer — wait, isn’t Malfoy expected to continue the bloodline? He will _have_ to have children for that to work. And because pure-bloods don’t believe in divorce but instead invest time and effort in secret dalliances and love affairs to be denied at the dinner table, he will have to have those children with _Harry_.

How does that even work? Unless Harry missed something _big_ in the endless possibilities of magic, two men cannot have children, wizards or not. But then, why was Malfoy allowed to marry him at all, if there can be no heir? Or is Harry supposed to graciously smile and pretend nothing is the matter as Malfoy takes a lover to sire a little army of blond children to run around here, raise them as his own and to uphold the family name in grace and dignity? Well, it _would_ be a family, Harry supposes. The question is, would it be _his_ or would he be an outsider pressed closer than usual again? A glorified nanny, the scar on his head making him the right kind of prestigious and important to brag.

No, Harry refuses. That cannot possibly be what is expected of him. And even if, Harry turned it into a point of pride to never do what is expected of him. No, if there are to be children growing up in this house, playing hide and seek in the numerous secret places old houses hold, discovering the world through the extensive library and having their growth noted in marks on door frames and pictures on the walls, Harry wants them to be _his_ children. Harry wants a whole Quidditch team of Marauders and after so vehemently refusing the thought of Malfoy with someone else, Harry will need to have them with Malfoy.

The thought is not as abhorrent as it ought to be. They would have Harry after all, to make sure they don’t turn into stuck-up bastards. Harry is secure enough in his distaste for Malfoy’s personality that he can admit, children that look like more ruffled version of Malfoy (because Harry can try what he might, he never looks as polished and sleek as Malfoy does) would be precious, especially if Harry makes sure they can actually develop a personality that isn't in turn revolting and then barely there. Harry doesn't hated that idea at all.

That settles it then, Harry wants children, wants them sooner rather than later, and Malfoy will have to answer a few questions.

* * *

Draco had hoped that consummating their marriage would mean he gets rid of Potter. Grimmauld would see the traditions satisfied, Potter as Draco’s equal, and the tense silence of them both sitting in the same room and wishing to be far away would finally come to an end. Potter would avoid him just like Draco would avoid Potter, they would have their weekly dinners to keep up appearance and they could both move on with their lives. A perfectly normal marriage, as agreed.

His hopes were severely disappointed. Grimmauld made no moves to accept Potter, as if doubting their marriage, and so they are still forced into close proximity more often than not. Draco is tired of it, has been for a long while now, and he doesn’t know what else he needs to sacrifice to afford Potter the freedom to leave him be. What more does he have left to give?

Potter snaps his book shut, getting up to pace through the room like a caged Hippogriff. He has something to say then, something he thought about a lot and knows Draco won’t like. Why do the first signs only appear when it’s already too late for a subtle escape? Potter paces and Draco knows from experience that he won’t let him go anymore, not until he said his piece and wrestled some kind of acquiescence out of Draco.

Draco wonders what he wants now, half dreading hearing it and half curious. It will be about their Situation, of that much he is sure; Potter might have some brilliant new idea of how to fix it. Unlikely, yes, but Draco needs some delusions to get through this.

Whatever it is he has to say, Draco will need something to hold on to, something for moral support and to do with his hands while Potter tests his nerves. Something already in the room because Draco can’t leave unless he wants to prompt Potter to vomit his thoughts out in the first words he can think of, something inconspicuous and solid and — his eyes land on the fruit basket sitting on the coffee table. Specifically on the apples, shiny and green, sitting next to various other fruits. Perfect.

Potter doesn’t spare Draco more than a glance but he makes a big show out of picking an apple anyway, considers them from all angles and holds them against the light; anything, as long as he doesn’t have to think about what’s going on in Potter’s mind.

“We need to talk, Malfoy.” Potter comes to a standstill, looking down at where Draco is sitting, holding the apple high over his head to marvel at the colour and looking a right fool. Great start into that no doubt excruciating debate, exactly what Draco hoped for. He hastily pulls the apple against his chest, as if a piece of fruit could protect him against anything, let alone the fickle expression of words, and schools his features into a mask of polite interest.

“Even you must have noticed that some things need changing around here,” Potter starts, falling back into his trot of crossing the room and paying Draco no more mind than he does the furniture, apart from insulting him, which is reserved for only Draco.

Draco bites into the apple instead of answering, because a fight will lead them nowhere and he would rather hear Potter’s idea now so he can make fun of it sooner and go back to his book. His mother has been asking for his opinion on it with increasing impatience lately.

“I talked to Ron and Hermione and we realised that maybe, it isn’t about our marriage at all. I mean, it very obviously isn’t about that, because I think we took pretty good care of making sure that’s iron-clad.” Potter leers at him — why won’t he stop doing that, how often does Draco have to make it clear that he has absolutely no intention of repeating anything of what happened that night? — and Draco raises his chin in defiance, because he will _not_ be embarrassed into looking away first. “So unless Grimmauld wants us to have more sex— which I wouldn’t object to, in case that wasn’t clear — the only thing missing from the perfect marriage would be an heir and we decided it was unlikely that _that_ is what Grimmauld demands.” Potter pauses, looking at Draco as he contemplates something. Draco doesn't want to know what more he could have to say, more of the previous probably, but he also doesn't know how to stop him and if Draco doesn't have a brilliant idea soon —

“Do you want children though,” Potter asks, blowing away all momentum Draco might have had to escape. “Because I have been thinking and you need to have someone to continue the bloodline, don’t you? It would probably be a good idea to decide now who of us is going to carry the children, because I never thought about being pregnant but I might be persuaded —”

Draco chokes on his apple, coughing violently as Potter rambles on unconcerned. Salazar's sweaty socks — what is Potter even _talking_ about?

“Potter, stop!” Miraculously, Potter does. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Children, of course. Keep up, Malfoy. See, I don’t think either of us really has the hips for childbearing but I think I could make the pregnant look work for me. What do you think?” Potter looks at him with all seriousness, honestly expecting an answer to his ridiculous question.

He has to be joking, right? He _has_ to be _._ But Potter doesn’t look like he is joking, stupidly green eyes wide and earnest, a hand laying on his stomach like he imagines what it would feel like to be pregnant. This is getting weird.

“Potter, you do know men cannot get pregnant, right?” Draco feels stupid even asking, he shouldn’t have to ask something so basic.

Draco doesn’t know what he expected, if he thought Potter might laugh at him for falling for his prank or argue with him perhaps, clear the misunderstanding this hopefully is. But Potter looks _devastated_ , and Draco doesn’t know what to do with that.

“What do you mean, men can’t — where would you get an heir from then?” Potter looks triumphant, as if that proves anything. In reality, it just confuses Draco further. Isn’t Potter supposed to be the one more knowledgeable on matters of … carnal activity? Is _Draco_ of all people really the one who has to explain this to him?

“Well, Potter, if a man and a woman —” Thankfully Potter interrupts him there, before Draco has to say anything more.

“I know about the birds and the bees, Malfoy,” he bites out, and Draco carefully doesn’t ask what birds and bees have to do with human procreation. Really, he doesn’t want to know what deranged things Muggles teach their children. “But we are both men, I'm sure you noticed. So how does that work? How are we going to have children?”

Children? Potter wants _children_ with Draco? Where is _any_ of this even coming from? Potter can’t be bothered to be civil with him most of the time and now he wants to _start a family_? Yes, this absolutely has to be a joke. Or Draco cracked his head somewhere and has gone crazy, seems equally likely by now.

“Aren’t the ferrets you dragged in here enough responsibility for you?” Draco asks, because his mind can’t deal with this and he has been reduced to Potter’s level of idiotic questions.

Potter doesn’t appreciate it either, giving him a Look because obviously you cannot compare children and ferrets at all (and Draco has been adamant about denying the existence of ferrets in their house, doing his best to ignore them and act like it’s all completely normal).

“Do we have to talk about this right now, Potter? It’s a complicated procedure including surrogates and bonds that have to be established; ask Granger if you want to know that badly.” Draco still holds the apple, he realises, looking somewhat worse for wear after bearing the brunt of Draco’s horror. “Is that what you wanted to discuss? Because I don’t think children would fix anything.”

Potter finally pulls himself together, shaking his head as if freeing himself from all thoughts about children and pregnancies (Draco wishes it were that simple, he might be permanently scarred after his) and once again assuming the posture of someone determined to be heard, back straight and glaring at Draco lest he dares to interrupts him.

“I think we should find out what Grimmauld wants from us, see what kind of behaviour gets me the warmest treatment instead of just trying to get me killed by fighting.” Potter looks like he expects Draco to object, like Draco would insist on keeping things just as they are because apparently Potter doesn’t realise Draco hates this situation as much as he does.

“What do you propose we start with, then?” Draco asks, because he does truly want this to be over and because he delights in the stunned look on Potter’s face.

“Well, Hermione said something about trust and intimacy,” Potter grimaces and Draco wholeheartedly agrees, he is fine without _trust and intimacy_ between them, “but I think we just need to get _closer_ again, you know. That is what being married means, doesn’t it? It’s either that or we tell each other our darkest secrets and braid our hair.”

Neither of those options sound appealing, going so far as being scientifically wrong. Marriage is an alliance, connections made and fortunes united, by far the most socially accepted form of human trading. The need for an heir is political, nothing else. Draco knows his view might be a fair bit more bitter than modern marriage deserves, that most of his knowledge on the matter is theoretical and fuelled by the horror stories of his friends' parents, but so far he has made few experiences to the contrary.

Draco didn’t think his thoughts showed on his face, but either Potter knows him better than he lets on or Draco needs to be more careful, but Potter seems to know exactly what he is thinking, hurrying to reassure.

“I know how this sounds and believe me, I don’t like it a whole lot either, but I want to figure out what this house wants from me, and since we are always pushed into the same room …” Potter trails of suggestively, letting Draco fill out the blanks.

It’s not a difficult task, not all that many things that Potter could have meant, but Draco’s brain is slow in accepting the obvious answer. Potter wants to do it again, and again and again after that, whenever the mood strikes him. He found a way to make it part of their agreement, make it something _Grimmauld_ demands instead of his own lecherous tendencies. There is no way for Draco out of this, not if he doesn’t want to bare his soul to Potter. How cruel, to make him choose his humiliation.

Draco takes another bite from the almost forgotten apple, reminds himself that it’s there. It feels like a lifeline, something to cling to to keep his head out of the water. Apples are a symbol of power, that’s what he was taught, a symbol of confidence and control. If you are eating an apple, you dominate the conversation, set the pace and signalise that you won’t be intimidated. Draco eats the apple and searches for his father’s words, for the arrogance he is meant to display.

It’s ridiculous, bordering on superstitious, but Draco can almost feel it working, becoming calmer as he concentrates on who he needs to be and — Potter snatches the apple out of his hand.

“Enough already, Malfoy, are you in or not?” Potter looms over him, pressing Draco back into the couch without so much as touching him. Potter leans close enough that Draco can make out the freckles on his skin, the gold specks in his eyes.

Grimmauld is thrumming with power around them, purring like a giant Kneazle and nudging them closer together. Fine then, fine. That was the deal they agreed upon, little as he might like it. Draco already tied his noose, now he has to wear it, too.

“Alright Potter, I’m in.” Potter smirks at him and Draco already knows that he is going to regret this.


	8. Chapter 8

Malfoy has begun to move workers into the house, directing them here and there, ordering them to carry out furniture and paint he walls. Harry watches from the sidelines, Malfoy is not asking for his opinion and Harry not offering it up. He watches as Malfoy transforms the house into something Harry doesn’t recognise, clears out room after room and has them all done up in pleasant, unoffending white emptiness. The walls are plain, the floor polished and no new furniture to replace what he had either thrown away or directed into the mysterious storage Harry has yet to see. (He's not sure he wants to see, Malfoy shipped all the worst things there.)

Harry marvels at Malfoy's dedication to making his mother happy (because that is who he is doing it all for, Harry knows from Ron who knows from Parkinson, so he feels the information can be trusted, unlikely as it seems) in the rooms they never used anyway, the countless parlous and guest rooms. It’s harder to watch him clear out rooms they spend a good amount of time in, the living room and kitchen reduced to their essentials, Harry’s bedroom packed up into neatly labelled boxes one day suddenly. Harry has to remind himself that that was the deal, that Malfoy could do whatever he wants in the house.

Granted, Harry thought Malfoy might show some basic respect and politeness and _not_ invade Harry’s privacy like that, but whatever. It’s not worth getting upset over and watch Malfoy get all smug. And if Harry is a little rougher with him that night, bites his skin more than he kisses it and lets his frustration bleed into bruises, Malfoy doesn’t protest.

(That’s the only really good thing about Malfoy starting his renovations — he gave up his game of being unreachable, which means more sex, which in turn means Grimmauld almost _welcoming_ Harry. It’s odd, Harry hasn’t figured out the underlying pattern to it yet, but often times, when they are both panting in the afterglow and leaning against each other, Grimmauld seems to be _purring_ around them. Harry usually gets a few hours of Grimmauld being kind after that, before he does something to upset Malfoy and the whole thing falls apart. Still, the sex is good, Malfoy’s inexperience painfully obvious at times but never a hindrance, and Harry is convinced they have finally figured out the secret to Grimmauld’s approval.)

Where Harry draws the line though, deal or not, is Sirius’s room. Malfoy won’t set a foot in there, not out of idle curiosity and especially not to transfer everything into rubbish bags to build himself a study or something equally pretentious. Harry won’t let him, under no circumstances.

“Potter, I told you we have a tight schedule today. Move out of the way.” Malfoy looks like he is mere inches away from simply _making_ Harry move, drawing his wand and blasting him out off the way. He doesn’t take gracefully to disruptions of his precious plans, but Harry takes even less well to people messing with his — mostly dead — family. Sirius is the only reason this house means anything, the only reason Harry tries so hard to make a home for himself here. Sirius' room is untouchable.

If Malfoy doesn’t understand that, he will have to learn it the hard way.

“No. This one is off limits. Do what you want with the rest of the house, drape it in that hideous Slytherin green if you have to, but not this one.” Harry meets Malfoy’s glare head on. He is not intimidated by his squawking; Harry faced greater opponents over less.

“That wasn’t the _deal_ , Potter.” Malfoy honestly _hisses_ at him, sounding like the snake he is. Harry forgot, over the last few days, that Malfoy is a callous prick. As if their deal has anything to do with Sirius, as if Malfoy has any _right_ to demand this.

“I change the deal, then. You aren’t getting this room.” Harry is stubborn, always has been, and if the price for it is Grimmauld going back to hating him for a while, he is fine with that.

Malfoy looks stunned, as if the thought of changing their deal never occurred to him but is by far the best idea of the day. Considering how proud Slytherins are of their twisted schemes, that is pretty weak. Harry would wonder what Malfoy could possibly want to change about their arrangement — it seems like the only real downside for him is having to tolerate Harry for dinner once a week, and maybe his coaxed participation in testing for Grimmaulds wishes, nothing nearly as monumental as wiping out Sirius off this house — but he is busy being unmovable. Harry might ask him later, when Malfoy finally realised he doesn’t stand a chance against him.

“You owe me a favour, I want to use that then. Unless you don’t honour bets, either?” The words are spit out, hurt and filled with disgust. Harry almost feels a bit bad about breaking their deal like that, he didn’t think it would cut Malfoy this deep. He doesn’t feel bad enough to hand over the room. He also doesn’t remember any favours promised, and if backing out of a quasi contract is bad, demanding invented favours is worse.

“What favour is that? I think I know better than to promise you something this vague.” Malfoy only smirks in response, and suddenly Harry remembers: Parkinson and her alleged seduction skills. “No, no you didn’t win that one. They are _not_ in love with Parkinson!”

Malfoy laughs, because they both know it’s not true. Both his best friends, _Ron and Hermion_ e, have fallen prey to Parkinson's charms a long time ago.

Where before Ron could talk for hours and hours about Hermione, he now splits that time between her and Parkinson. Not, Harry fears, for lack of infatuation but rather because there is only so long Harry can listen to his ravings. Hermione is more subtle in her feelings, maybe because she and Harry never talked about her feelings for Ron either, not in such frank words, but she is just as gone on Parkinson.

Harry doesn’t see it ending well, not at all, but he secretly hopes they might bond over Parkinson breaking their hearts and get together in some terribly rom-com cheesy plot to make Parkinson jealous. They’ll realise they had everything they could ever need all along and won’t even mind when Harry takes his fearsome revenge on Parkinson for playing with his friends hearts.

Completely unrealistic expectations of his friends emotional epiphanies aside, that means Malfoy won their bet and Harry does indeed owe him a favour. And this is what Malfoy is asking for, Sirius, the last thing remaining of his godfather and the future he promised to Harry; the spirit of his angry and rebellious teenage years, brilliant and passionate and a fragment from a time when they were all happy together, ready to take on the world.

Malfoy wants to drown it all in white paint until it’s not recognisable any more, wants to take down Sirius’ posters and fix the loose plank in the floor, throwing out the secret treasures hidden there.

Harry won’t let him. He will protect this room — this window to the past and failed futures and people he never knew — with whatever it takes, no price too high. If Malfoy is half as smart as he likes to think he is, he won’t push Harry. If he has any of that famed self-preservation, he’ll leave and forget all about the room.

There is an odd expression on Malfoy’s face, not smug at having found something vulnerable and precious to Harry, not determined to strut in and break it. Malfoy looks … concerned? It’s hard to tell with the walls shaking around and — oh, they aren’t supposed to do that, are they? It’s not Grimmaulds doing, either, Harry realises, thoughts thick and slow as treacle. This is _him_ , his magic lashing out in fury. That explains it, then. Malfoy has better look scared!

Although, that’s not what that expression is. Harry saw Malfoy afraid plenty of times: surrounded by fire in the Room of Requirement; in third year, when Harry played that prank and made him and his gorillas think he was a dangerous ghost from the Shrieking Shack; even in sixth year, in that bathroom, clutching the sink and desperately searching a solution in the mirror, but finding only himself, alone. Harry knows what fear looks like on Malfoy’s face, and there is not even a hint of it anywhere to find.

That rankles a bit, he’ll be honest. Harry always thought it rather impressive, the dance of his untamed magic, reassuring though sprung loose. Malfoy doesn’t looked awed though. Instead he seems concerned, still so concerned, Harry is sure of it now.

“Are you alright, Potter?” What kind of question is that? _Is he alright_ — does he _look_ alright?

“No, Malfoy, I’m not bloody _alright_. There is this arrogant prick who tires to wipe out the only room in this _entire house_ that I actually care about!” Now _Harry_ is shaking, anger and fear cursing through him, helpless tears welling up and Malfoy is still just _standing there_ , looking at Harry with reproach, caught between pity and irritation.

That’s just grand, exactly what Harry needed, a sudden emotional break-down right neatly presented for Malfoy’s merciless eyes. Fantastic.

“Just leave, give me a moment before you come and laugh at me, would you?” It’s a pathetic plea to Malfoy’s humanity — something Harry honestly isn’t sure is a real thing — and he immediately wishes he hadn’t said it. If there was a way to make this entire situation worse, that was it. Harry always had a penchant for disaster.

Malfoy, unsurprisingly, doesn’t leave. He also, which _is_ surprising, doesn’t say anything; he watches Harry, gaze steady while everything in Harry is in upheaval. Harry can’t stand it.

“ _What_ , Malfoy? Are you going to stop staring and _do_ something already?” Harry just can’t keep his mouth shut, blurting one embarrassing thought after the other. Next he is going to tell Malfoy that he would like to crumble into a puddle of human failure now and that he would prefer to do it in the privacy of the house who hates him, please.

Merlin, Harry had no idea he was _that_ high strung, no idea he could fall this deep.

Malfoy _finally_ moves, opening his mouth but not saying any of the insults that must, without a doubt, be crowded on his tongue already. Malfoy reaches out to Harry, reaches out to — what for? Harry didn’t think Malfoy the punching type, more likely to break his own hand than do any harm to his victim, probably hysterically laughing at the display.

Malfoy doesn’t punch him. Harry wish he would, it might be less confusing.

Malfoy isn’t pouncing, he is _patting_ Harry, fingers awkwardly tangled in his hair and hand moving in circles. What is he _doing_? What is even _happening_?

“Is this okay?” Malfoy whispers, suddenly very close, grey eyes wide and unsure, their only point of contact Malfoy’s hand in Harry’s hair.

Harry looks down into his face, searches for traces of malice or madness and finding absolutely nothing, despite Malfoy’s face being more open that he ever saw it. Harry can’t bring himself to look away, can’t move his mouth to answer.

What would he say anyway? ‘Yes, please keep patting me like I’m a cat because it calms the maelstrom ripping through my body’? No, thank you.

Apparently simply not answering answer was the wrong way to go, though, because Malfoy averts his eyes and makes to move away, pulling his hand out of Harry’s hair — that is the last thing he wants, and in a moment of panic Harry grabs Malfoy around the waist and pulls him close again, closer perhaps than before.

“No, stay. You — it helps.” The words are laughable insufficient, nowhere near big enough to capture the gravity of the moment.

It takes entirely too long for Harry — distracted surreptitiously smelling Malfoy’s hair — to notice how tense Malfoy is under his hands. That in itself isn’t odd, Malfoy always needs a few minutes to relax, but here is feels _wrong_.

“Sorry, I’m — is this okay?” Harry feels stupid even asking, echoing what Malfoy himself just asked a small eternity ago. Harry put his hands far more private places and it was always fine, better than fine; this is nothing.

“Don’t be dull, Potter.” That’s a yes, Harry is sure, but the words sound strained and not at all convincing. Harry reluctantly takes his hands off of him.

Malfoy blinks up at him, expression unreadable, but he doesn't pull away again and he slowly but surely starts relaxing. That’s better, Harry think somewhat numbly, most of his attention focused on Malfoy’s hand weaving once again through his hair, quietening the storm raging in Harry.

It’s nice, better than mindlessly hurling around words or whatever is close enough to reach in an attempt to burn the energy racing through his veins. Harry doesn’t know how Malfoy does it, standing rooted to the spot should be the opposite of helpful, but Malfoy’s concern feels like a soft blanket wrapped around him, comfort sinking through Harry’s tense muscles and warming him to his core. Malfoy’s movements are careful, tender, sliding over Harry’s head and draining him of the itching of his restless nerves.

“Why won’t you let me see the room, Potter?” Malfoy asks softly, not disturbing the quiet he established and low enough that Harry could probably get away with not answering, pretending not to have heard.

“That’s Sirius’ room. He —” Harry breaks off before he can say anything more, anything to actually answer the question, because he can feel the tremors setting in again, threatening the soft tranquillity. Malfoy doesn’t push, just hums in acknowledgement as if that’s all he needed to know, as if he can deduce the rest. Who knows, maybe he can.

The moment feels surreal, leaning on Malfoy for support and not questioning his sanity for it, the most normal thing in the world. That must be the reason Harry told him about Sirius; little as it is, it’s enough for Malfoy to figure out a whole lot of unpleasant history and loss. Harry is sure he’ll regret it later, but right now he feels overwhelmed and alone, desperate enough to take comfort wherever he can find it.

The moment doesn’t feel real, _Malfoy_ doesn’t feel real, like it will have no consequences, gone by tomorrow and never to be talked about again.

“My mother, she — she hasn’t been the same after the war. She used to bring us here, to watch as Walburga lost her mind. I don’t know how long she has been coming here before that, how long she had to convince herself that her own fate would be similar to Walburga’s, but she formed this house into a symbol of her own inevitable madness. I have no intention of allowing that to happen, letting some desolate house destroy her because she held onto it too tightly. So I'm going to fix it, and then she’ll feel better. She will.” Malfoy’s hands are clenched in Harry’s hair, clinging to Harry as much as Harry clings to him, and Harry doesn’t point out how shaky that logic is, how naive the idea that it would be that easy. Malfoy is well aware of that, and Harry is familiar enough with denial to recognise when it’s the only thing that keeps you going.

And because this moment isn’t real anyway, Harry doesn’t stop his instinct to wrap Malfoy up in his arms, to pull him close against his chest and hold him. The situation is already embarrassing, Harry might as well go all the way now.

Malfoy goes tense again, breath coming out quick as he stands unmoving, but this time Harry doesn’t let him go. He smooths his hands over Malfoy’s back, tries to soothe him and offer some of the comfort Malfoy is giving him, hiding a smile as Malfoy slowly starts melting.

Harry has no idea what they are doing, standing still in the corridor while the house around them is bustling with activity, workers following Malfoy’s orders but not disturbing them to ask more inane question as they are wont to (Grimmauld leading them away perhaps? Not that it really matters, as long as they get some more time to stay like this, Harry doesn’t care who he has to thank for it), separated from the rest of the world. It’s oddly intimate, Malfoy’s face pressed into Harry’s neck, his fingers still entangled in his hair, Harry’s arms wound around his ribs, holding him up and close, his face resting on Malfoy’s head, his hair soft against Harry’s skin.

They are entwined like trees, unmoving with an undeniable power resting somewhere between them, growing high against the skies and refusing to let the darkness pull them down.

They will be just fine, Harry is sure of it.


	9. Chapter 9

Draco doesn’t know to behave towards Potter, after their unconventional bonding moment a few days back. He never thought he would be the one to keep Potter from breaking apart at the seams, not when their childhood had been devoted to finding ever new ways of making the other explode and laugh at the ensuing confetti. But standing there, watching the first sign that Potter isn’t as unaffected by this whole ordeal as assumed, that he _cares_ and _hurts_ and that he is not just smug and abusing his status as hero and saviour to bully people into getting his way (to be fair, that had never been Potter’s style, but people seem to love kissing his feet and Potter is more than happy to push around Draco, specifically; it’s a convenient conclusion for wary thoughts) and Draco couldn’t help but reach out.

Now that he knows what it feels like, the pride of being able to offer Potter peace, not just anger and sly remarks, the satisfaction of learning that Potter must feel _safe_ with him, on some deep subconscious level of his being, because instead of pushing Draco away in his vulnerable moment, he pulled him closer — well, Draco could get used to that.

Of course, after Potter told him of Sirius Black — disgraced and disowned, freed from the oppressive family expectations only to land himself in prison, never more than a glance into endless lives Potter can’t have anymore — and Draco talked about his mother — why did he do that? — they are left in unknown territory. They stood there for what felt like decades, anchored in each other and their breathing synced, both of them loath to end the moment. That’s not a thing you do with your arch-nemesis-turned-spouse-who-still-hates-you, that’s what you do with people you share a _real_ bond with.

It makes no sense that it should have been so comfortable, felt so right. It makes no sense that Draco should already yearn for the moment back.

Potter’s touch never meant anything good for Draco.

He dwelled on it long enough in his melodramatic and fanciful youth to decide it started with the hand shake that wasn’t. Draco devoted whole poems to that first meeting, to Potter’s cruel rejection — thankfully he burned them all in a fit of resentment, when he resolved to be done with Harry Potter. It wasn’t quite that simple, of course, but watching the fire writhe and inhaling the smoke, it felt _good_ for a few precious moments, cathartic.

Draco could have continued to define their relationship over touches they didn’t have — gracing fingers when passing each other; hands squeezing in support or, later, a show of possession, a claim staked far better than slobbering kisses; peacefully sitting close and being friends, if nothing else — but thinking about the endless possibilities of what could have been is madness, and Draco is still too young to wear that look with grace.

Instead he focuses on the touches that actually were, the pushing and shoving and jostling, the glares impressive enough to rival literal knives. That one extraordinary time Potter took Draco’s hand to save him.

After that there is only their marriage and the consummation, the horrible kiss and Potter’s flawless reasoning that certain things are 'simply expected to happen' in marital beds. And against walls, apparently, which Draco doubts but doesn’t know how to openly question. There is Potter on him whenever he feels like it and Draco having to remember every time not to flinch, to let Potter do whatever it is he wants and to go with it, because this way it will be over quickest.

Draco has long since lost all delusion that it’s only the consummation that would be important, Potter acts like each and every time is groundbreaking and crucial to his life, and Draco prefers not asking in fear of knowing too much.

Draco just closes his eyes and lets Potter arrange him however he sees fit, imagines himself far away and pretends not to notice the feeling over Potter’s fingers tracing over his skin, their intent obvious and heavy, acts like he doesn’t feel sick and in need of a cleaning afterwards.

None of those touches Draco remembers fondly (well maybe not _all_ of them; the rescue was rather appreciated, Draco has to admit). That embrace, however, that one Draco can’t stop thinking about.

“Are you dreaming of Potter’s heroically muscled arms, made to hold and protect, again?” Pansy asks, the smirk evident in her tone. Draco really needs to start questioning what he tells his friends.

“Seriously though, Potter’s arms _are_ quite nice to look at.” Blaise acts like he is coming to Draco’s aid, very earnest in his insistence of Potter’s objective attractiveness, but Draco has known them all too long to believe him. Draco narrows his eyes at him. “There are certainly worse places to swoon into.”

Draco doesn't know what his face is doing, but they all burst out laughing. That's just great. Draco might have expected something like this, but it didn’t help him at all.

“Oh don’t pout, Draco. Being gently cradled in Potter’s arms — that should be a success story!” Even _Theo_ joined them now, searching for more clever damsel in distress references they can make, completely ignoring that Potter didn’t even _do_ any rescuing, far from a knight in shining armour.

“ _I_ am the one who did all the saving! Why am I made fun of for that?” That was a very unwise thing to say out loud, his friends sitting up with renewed glint of interest in their eyes.

“Of course, the unexpected hero of the hour: Draco Malfoy!” Millicent raises a mocking toast in his direction, downing her juice like it’s mead. If she sat any closer, Draco would have spit into her drink (yes, he is _that_ petty).

“Unexpected, is that the best you can come up with?” How insulting. Not that Draco has any aspirations in that direction, but he should certainly hope that he would do better than _unexpected_.

“Brave?” Theo proposes, not convinced himself and starting a low debate between them. Draco can see where this is going, he needs to —

“Ferocious,” Pansy announces, like she wanted to use that word all day and finally found the perfect opportunity.

“Dashing,” Millicent adds, with a wink meant to be lascivious but falls short enough that even Draco notices.

“Selfless.” Now that one goes too far. Draco _resents_ that. Blaise looks quite smug though.

“Over-dramatic.” Theo says it like it’s a _bad_ thing, and he is the only one of Draco’s miserable gaggle of friends who can’t be accused of the same, so Draco can’t protest, really.

“Talkative.” That’s not even true — they are just listing words now!

“Okay, _thank you_ , that’s quite enough.” They are getting more insulting and less entertaining with every word. If they are not going to take this seriously, Draco doesn’t want to know what kind of hero he'd make. The one that grows old and grey because he is smart enough to stay out of trouble, probably. Which is a _boring_ answer, time to move on.

“But I was having so much fun!” Pansy pouts, as if she honestly expects that to still work on him. She used to be able to convince him of absolutely anything if only she pouted for long enough. Pansy is marginally more patient than Draco, at least if her schemes to coerce more sweets out of Draco require it, and so she always managed to last longer in their stare-offs. Draco likes to think he has improved since these days, grown more resilient.

“That’s precisely the problem, Pansy dear. Your fun rarely ends well for me.” A slight exaggeration, perhaps, but it’s true enough in principle.

“You always say that, but you can never name _one_ instance —” Draco can always name a myriad of instances, but usually Pansy sweeps those off with a wave of her hand and a charming smile.

“Your sordid love affair with the Weasleys, for one.” Pansy stops, not expecting that, and Draco feels ridiculously satisfied when he sees she might even be _blushing_. Serves her right, maybe she’ll consider her comments about Potter’s dubiously heroic nature better next time.

“What — _all of them_?” Millicent asks in horror, with a smudge of admiration in her tone. Well, Draco didn’t need to know Millicent had a _thing_ for gingers, or maybe it’s the high number Draco implied that impresses her. Either way, Draco doesn’t need to know.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Pansy strives for coy, he knows she does, but in reality she sounds just the wrong the side of unsettled. Draco didn’t realise it was getting this serious, enough between them to fluster Pansy and make her want to avoid questions about them.

Pansy gets obnoxiously smug about her flings, bragging and relaying tales in greater detail than anyone really wanted, proud and unapologetic. Draco supposes this is due to the disapproving looks she gets; Pansy thrives on demolishing the walls other people try and set for her. It’s only feelings she clams up at, falling in love with a nice person to marry and settle down and have a hoard of children to further the bloodline, exactly how society dictates. Her feelings for Weasley and Granger hardly fit that narrow frame, but apparently spitting monogamy in the face is not enough to tempt her into smug defiance.

“I _would_ like to know, yes. Spill it, Parkinson — all of them?” Blaise demands, needing to raise his voice over the murmured discussion between Theo and Millicent, who are caught somewhere between awe and apprehension, both envisioning the various advantages and disadvantages that entertaining harem would bring. Both are entirely convinced Pansy could do it, _would_ do it, too.

Pansy is scrambling for something clever to say before someone remembers the countless vague comments that have been made and puts it all together. Pansy has teased them all mercilessly about their love life (or lack of it), at any opportunity she got — she is well aware the tables are about to turn.

“You are talking about Potter’s Weasley and Granger!” Blaise finally says, triumph written over his face. Draco doesn’t point out that they are _all_ Potter’s Weasleys, a bit. Blaise wouldn’t take kindly to being corrected when he just figured it all out and Pansy would latch on to it to distract from the looming contemplation of her feelings. “That’s who Pansy has been flirting with, isn’t it?”

“No!” Pansy shouts, too loudly, too quickly. Well, this couldn’t have been more convenient for Draco, really, this way it’s not even him who proclaimed her secret crush for everyone to hear, so he can deny all the blame.

“Wait — why did you say Weasleys then? Unless Granger and Weasley managed to sneak away from all the papers and rumours without anyone noticing and remarking on it — Granger might be smart, but that requires a kind of intelligence I seriously doubt either of them possesses, possibly they never even heard of it— they aren’t married,” Millicent points out, because she can be tediously insistent on matters such as this. It comes in handy quite often, but Draco has long since given up counting the times Millicent ruined his rhetoric masterpieces by clinging to her technicalities. Judging by the smirk she only makes a token effort to conceal, Millicent is well aware of and thoroughly enjoying Draco’s irritation. Lovely.

“They have basically been married since we all were eleven and you know it; that is close enough to count.” Draco has no patience for Millicent right now, not when he is looking to make Pansy the object of their communal curiosity.

“What makes you think they would take Weasley’s name then? Why can’t _he_ take _Granger’s_ name?” Millicent asks, because sometimes she just can’t leave him be.

What kind of question is that, anyway? There are no right answers here, Draco has argued with her enough (more or less fondly, depending on the topic) to know that. Millicent isn’t looking for an actual discussion here, she is looking to rile him up. It’s working all too well.

“Yes, Draco, why _does_ she have to take his name?” Draco glares at Theo. He always delights in a good debate and consequently does his best to stoke the fires, but Draco has no intention of becoming the centre of attention again. How is no one talking about Pansy’s doomed-to-fail love affair yet?

“They can hyphenate their names to the atrocious and cumbersome Granger-Weasley for all I care, is everyone satisfied with that?” No one is satisfied with that: Millicent frowns, Theo sulks at the missed chance, Blaise is preoccupied scowling at his food and Pansy looks all yearning and wistful at the idea of her new paramours being married without her. “The _point_ is, they have been pathetically pining after each other without either of them gathering enough of that famous Gryffindor courage to speak up about it. And now Pansy is pining after them, too, only slightly less pathetic because it hasn't been as long yet.”

Pansy makes and offended noise at that, one Draco ignores in favour of watching the speculative glances their friends exchange, looking Pansy up and down as if, somewhere, she wears a hidden proclamation they missed before.

“As kind as Draco defining my relationship is,” Pansy shoots him a glare and Draco knows she doesn’t think him kind at all, “I'm neither 'pathetically pining' nor 'desperately in love'. I flirt shamelessly and make Weasley blush, kiss Granger between bookshelves and drag her away from her research for something more fun if she holes herself up for too long. I'm enjoying myself, no one is under and false illusions and no one is getting hurt — it’s all good. Thanks for your concern, save it for when I need it. Now talk about Millicent and her internship at Mungo's, would you?”

“You don’t have to be ashamed of your love, Pansy dear. Quite the opposite, in fact. You won me a favour from Potter.” That immediately gets all the eyes on him and Draco curses his compulsory sharing of anything Potter.

Pansy, evil bint that she is, smirks at him. “Do tell, Draco, we all want to know.”

Draco bets they would. He doesn’t even have to look up to confirm it, to see them all staring at him like hungry vultures, greedy for every drop of entertainment they can suck out of him. Oh how Draco longs to be a vulture again, it seems like lately all they talk about is him and Potter anymore. That’s too much attention (even for Draco, who would never admit it but thrives on attention).

“We made a bet about your prospects of ensnaring the Granger-Weasleys, Potter lost and now he owes me. That’s all there is to it.” That’s _not_ all there is to it, but Draco would rather sit in silence and have them all stare at him for an hour than divulge his little moral crisis. Bad enough that he told them about their Moment, no need to make it worse. Having a philosophical debate about annihilating the last physical connection Potter has to his godfather (Draco did as research on disgraced family members; Sirius Black must have been a fascinating, infuriating person — likely what got him outcast in the end) would definitely be making it worse.

They might help, though. Draco has no idea what to do. On one hand, Potter _did_ say Draco would have free reign about the house, no exemption agreed on. Draco is paying a high price for that deal, he wants to get what was promised. But he already offered to regard it as the favour owed, because when confronted with Potter about to fall apart Draco panicked, his brain circuited and he completely forgot the room was already his by all that is right and just.

On the other hand, the room means a lot to Potter. Things Draco has no chance of understanding unless Potter tells him (and damn but Draco _longs_ for Potter to tell him, to deem him important and safe enough to share that intimate part of himself — when did that happen?) and destroying that might not be the best course of action. No matter the goal, really, there are countless many better things to do.

Besides, Draco doesn’t absolutely _need_ another sitting room (to be personalised later, maybe he’ll pick up a hobby that needs extra dedication of space). But what else is Draco supposed to do — give Potter anything he wants and prove himself a weak push-over?

So that is the problem, it’s a matter of principle warring against sentiment, logic long since deserted along the road side.

Draco knows he should approach this differently, should think about this with more strategy. _Like chess, your whole life is a giant game of chess_ his father used to tell him when he was younger. He was trying to help and give Draco a tool to make reality work for him, but in the end all he accomplished was scarring him. Draco has always been bad at chess, really, spectacularly bad. He doesn’t have the patience, too much sitting around without being allowed to move, constantly required to plan five absurd and tedious moves ahead. His father tried teaching him, hired an endless array of teachers and organised rigged competitions, but Draco could never warm up to the game. He feels fully justified blaming his current floundering on his father.

“Considering how I seem to have substantially aided your acquisition of that favour, it seems only fair that you should share it with me,” Pansy says, a little too casual, too quick to give up trying to needle details out of Draco. There is something she wants, something sure she wants him to use his favour for.

“That doesn’t seem particularly fair to me, I have the distinct impression you would be the first to laugh at me had I lost the bet. You wouldn’t have claimed part if _I_ were the one owing a favour.” Draco is mostly teasing, they all know he is, but Pansy doesn’t appreciate it and glares at him. Draco gifts her his most blinding smile.

“Don’t be dense, Draco, it doesn’t suit you.” Pansy knows exactly what he wants, that she’ll have to actually _ask_ if she wants his help in this, and she hates it. Draco waits, watches as Pansy reconsiders how important her pride is against whatever she wants from him. “Please, Draco.”

Draco stares somewhat dumbly. He didn’t expect her to _beg_. An admission of needing help, perhaps, the begrudging granting of sharing one of her favours in return — not this. If he is honest, it unsettles him. The mood is instantly more serious, more dangerous.

“Of course, Pansy. Anything, you know that.” He means it, Draco would plot a high profile assassination right this moment on a napkin, if she needed him to.

Pansy grabs his hands for support, looks at him very solemn and Draco is getting worried — what happened and why is he only now hearing about it? Did Pansy already kill someone and needs them to cover up the tracks? Does she plan another risky act of crime and liberation to free animals from their cruel prison and is asking him for help after he nearly died the last time and she promised him he would never have to come along again? But why would she need Potter for that? Does she want him to protect her from societies scorn?

“I want Potter to talk Granger and Weasley into going out with me.”

She — what? Draco pulls his hands away, gaping at her, trying to understand what just happened as Pansy laughs at him. Oh that insidious little —

“Don’t pout, Draco. I'm sorry, alright? You should have seen your face.” Pansy is still gasping in laughter, which is _insulting._ It wasn’t all that funny, not nearly as much as she pretends. That’s what being a good friend gets you. “Seriously, I do need that favour.”

“And why exactly should I hand over this incredibly valuable thing after you abused my trust and concern to laugh at me?” Draco is speechless at the audacity. Pansy doesn’t seem the least bit remorseful, far too pleased with herself. She can get her own dates.

“Because then _I_ will owe you, and we all know you like to hold debts over our heads.” Pansy makes a convincing argument, Draco _does_ like collecting various favours — which is normal enough — and making sure that everyone remembers he has them, that he simply has to call them in — which might be less normal. But Draco works hard for these favours and he can do with them as he pleases.

A favour from Pansy, that is shockingly more useful than a favour from Potter. Pansy is clever, she has connections and no reservations about doing something possibly not quite up to Potter’s moral standard. More important, Pansy actually _keeps her word._ Draco learnt the hard way that Potter’s word doesn’t mean anything, not if it requires the Grand Hero to compromise his own comfort. Exchanging his favour is the smartest thing Draco can do in this situation.

There is no need for Pansy to know that already. She can squirm a little more.

* * *

“Potter! Nice to see you finally dragged yourself here, I made you some coffee. Hurry up drinking though, we have much to do today!” Malfoy almost _jumps_ him the second Harry stumbles into the kitchen. Grimmauld had stubbornly refused to let him crawl back into bed, the kitchen had been his only hope. Although Harry might have just curled up on the floor to sleep had he expected to be attacked here.

Malfoy jumps up and down like a bouncy ball, or maybe a chipmunk on too much caffeine, and Harry guesses that he has Malfoy to thank for his early start. Bloody fantastic.

Harry isn’t capable of words yet. Not this early and not without whatever Malfoy took, so he settles on glaring at him. It’s a good glare though, if he says so himself, made more dangerous by Harry's sleep-addled mind and subsequent lack in restraint and impulse control.

Not that Malfoy notices, blathering on as he flits through the kitchen and pours coffee into a huge mug that he unceremoniously shoves into Harry’s hands. Harry doesn’t mind, any way of getting his coffee is a good way. Would be better if Malfoy would shut up already, but Harry submerges himself in the deeply black and steaming liquid to drown him out.

He doesn’t usually drink his coffee black, because he isn’t pretentious and doesn’t need to impress people with his coffee-order, but trust Malfoy not to remember despite how many mornings they spent in silence, watching each other over the rim of their respective mugs, downing their poison. _Harry_ knows how Malfoy takes his tea. At least he’s pretty sure he does, even though he can’t recall right now.

Adding milk and sugar to the coffee requires more caffeine in his system, though, so Harry has no choice but to kill some of his poor taste buds. Harry keeps glaring at Malfoy, because clearly he is the one to blame for this miserable morning. If it can be called a morning at all! It's so dark out, this is basically the middle of the night.

Malfoy, Harry has the distinct impression, has been up for a while. There is a jittery flutter to his movements, something hectic that hints at too much caffeine to keep his falling eyes open. Harry wonders what god-forsaken reason Malfoy had to pull them both out of bed so early (actually, he doesn’t care about Malfoy’s sleeping habits too much, but Harry draws the line at Malfoy messing with his own sporadic sleep) but then he realises he can move his legs again and he pats over to the fridge, eager to soften the bitter coffee Malfoy thought an appropriate apology for having him thrown on the hard floor.

“I thought we could start moving the furniture today! I ordered a lot for the guest room and the downstairs parlour — you know, the one we rarely use — and it’s high time you took responsibility and accepted your share in the renovation. Frankly, I’m quite sick of doing everything alone and there will be a lot of heavy furniture to move —” Harry shuts him up with a wave of his hand, magic laying itself over Malfoy’s mouth and sealing it shut. Harry smiles in the blissful quiet.

Malfoy is enraged, gesturing furiously and wildly and Harry is reminded of the cartoons Dudley used to watch, the only thing missing is the steam puffing out of his head. The only difference is that Malfoy is more entertaining than the TV by far.

Unfortunately, Malfoy is a wizard too and not a weak one at that. It doesn’t take long until he freed himself of Harry’s sleepy spell. Pity, good things never seem to last.

“Really, Potter, you don’t just go around silencing people! Didn’t anyone teach you that? You uncivilised cretin of —” Malfoy suddenly falls deadly silent, looking at Harry as if worried how he might react.

Harry is still a bit slow, the caffeine taking it’s sweet time to take root in his brain, so he has to carefully sift through Malfoy’s words until — oh, Malfoy insulted his dead parents. Again. And he vividly recalls Harry cracking the last time, how that might have ended very differently for him. Well, isn’t that rich in opportunity.

Harry smirks at him and watches in satisfaction as Malfoy pales a shade or two, looking like he wishes that now _he_ was the one to fall through the floor. Harry kind of wishes that, too, he would like to see that.

“Funnily enough, Malfoy, no one did teach me not to go around silencing people.” The _so I can do whatever I want_ is implied. Going by the shocked gape on Malfoy’s pretty lips, he understood it, too.

“Oh, well, very funny indeed.” Malfoy clearly does _not_ think it funny, at all. Harry though, Harry thinks it’s _hilarious_ (that could probably be due to his half-awake state, he’ll have to make further jokes to test his theory, but this has potential).

“Why am I awake?” Harry asks, taking pity on Malfoy’s floundering and because he is finally aware enough to understand the answer. He _thinks_ Malfoy told him already, but there were a lot of words in fast succession and Malfoy high on his caffeine buzz.

“For the furniture, of course! I got up early to supervise the delivery — you have to be really careful with those, once we had arranged for Hesper Black’s mirror to be delivered to the Manor and these brutes let it fall and broke the beautiful glass all over our main stairs in the east wing. Hesper haunted us for two years, because he spent enough time in front of that mirror for pieces of his soul to become attached and he didn’t take kindly to —” Malfoy shows no sign of stopping, gaining speed and losing himself in the intricacies of his story.

Harry might be more awake now, but Malfoy is several cups of caffeine ahead of him and Harry doesn’t need his outraged chatter just yet. Actually, he didn’t know Malfoy was _capable_ of it, and right now Harry wishes he really weren't.

“I already locked away the infernal bags of fur, warded the room thrice to be sure, so they won’t be in your way,” Malfoy finally concludes, smiling brightly at Harry. It's an unsettling sight to say the least. Malfoy doesn’t _smile_ at him, let alone this brightly.

What’s even more puzzling though — infernal bags of fur? What on earth is Malfoy talking — the ferrets! Harry had forgotten Malfoy insists on hating them. As if Harry didn’t see him surreptitiously patting them behind books raised suspiciously highly, feeding them scraps of dinner under the table when he doesn’t think Harry notices or ordering all that expensive and unnecessary shampoo — admittedly, it smells really good and make their fur very shiny — to bath them ( _that_ Harry would love to see, they never liked Harry so much as carrying them to the bathroom but seeing Malfoy almost be drowned by angry ferrets might make their little quirk worth it).

“Wait, _my_ way? What about you, couldn't you gracefully float over them while levitating a couch?” Harry has to ask, it doesn’t really matter beyond it being a point of principle (and Harry is still far too tired for principle) but the picture is hilarious and he half contemplates freeing the ferrets just to watch that.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Potter. First of all, I will be busy directing you because we both know you don’t stand a chance at creating something pleasant, even after I already picked the furniture for you. Second, and more importantly, you can’t _levitate_ the furniture. Your magic would interfere with their own charms and spells and concoct something dreadful.” Malfoy nods along decisively, already leading them out of the kitchen as he talks. Harry, because apparently he is an idiot and doesn’t even attempt to think of a good excuse, follows him.

Harry desperately wishes to be young and innocent again, the boy that got excited about anything magic and would have thought the idea of spell-infused furniture cool and brilliant. Instead he is a grumpy and disillusioned adult, groaning at the thought of lugging whatever Malfoy ordered — no doubt heavy and ugly — and questioning what is wrong with plain old muggle furniture that Harry could transport for more conveniently.

“What are they magicked for, anyway,” Harry grumbles, not looking forward to this expedition on bit.

“Honestly, Potter. Sometimes you seem almost normal and like you have some semblance of rational thought, and then you go and say something like that.” Malfoy tuts at him, as if his exasperation is meant to impress Harry. “They are protective charms, of course. Against spillage and dust and robberies usually, but I had them add a few creative tweaks to ensure their safety against your ferrets as well.”

That mostly makes sense, and if Malfoy had sounded less haughty when he explained Harry might even have admitted to that being rather useful. He won’t though, because Malfoy _did_ drawl that in his most condescending tone. Harry might have to drop a vase or two to get back at him.

“And here we are! I suggest you start with the parlour, they aren’t _sorted_ exactly but they should all be labelled.” Malfoy makes a grand gesture at the huge pile of meticulously stocked furniture, pointing out which ones are intended for the parlour and which should be the safest to move.

He cannot possibly be serious.

“Tell me you are joking,” Harry demands, unable to tear his eyes away from the literal mountain of chairs, tables, shelves — there’s more than Harry can take in this early.

Malfoy laughs at him. Just, stands there and laughs. Harry should go back to bed. Malfoy has clearly gone crazy, lost his mind in the dawning hours of the morning, very tragic. Harry will have him declared insane when he wakes up later, to an actual reasonable time and nothing more to do with his day but what he himself chooses to. Namely have a doctor attest to Malfoy's poor state of mind and sue for divorce. That's the only sensible thing to do in this situation. Hagrid made him read Jane Eyre, Harry knows locking up the crazy spouse and hoping for the best is a recipe for disaster.

The moment he turns to go Malfoy takes notice (possibly he announced his plans, too, Harry doesn’t feel fond enough of the git to credit him with perception) and — with some truly foul spell — snatches Harry’s coffee right out of his hand, away from where he had it cradled against his chest for the pleasant warmth and the scent in his nose. Malfoy doesn’t care, as he cruelly abducts Harry’s only friend this morning.

“Now Potter, as amusing as your grumpiness is,” Malfoy never sounded less amused and Harry is sure he is just a few more unfavourable comments away from being turned into something very creative and very unflattering, “I do have to insist that you get to work now. I meant it when I said we have much to do today, we really don’t have any time to twaddle. I didn’t want to do this, but I’ll hold your coffee hostage: for every furniture moved, you get some more. Meanwhile I will just hold on to this, put it under a stasis charm.”

Malfoy smirks at him — evil, pure evil — and Harry doesn’t point out that stasis charms on hot beverages are disgusting, turning them into a stale mockery of what they should be. He has the feeling the bastard already knows.

“The armchair first, the green one, for the parlour.” Malfoy points and Harry obeys, because fighting seems useless without coffee and Harry is abruptly tired of it.

So Malfoy has twig arms and can’t even lift a chair without assistance and he bullied Harry into doing it for him, so what? Sure, Harry will never let him forget it, but right now there is little he can do about it. Nothing but climb to the armchair his highness chose (easier said than done, there are countless many green bulky things, and Malfoy is horrible at giving directions, sending Harry left but not quite _that_ far left and higher but then lower again and suddenly more left after all) and shove his physical superiority into Malfoy’s face.

Harry tries to remember that, that he is doing proud and impressive work here, as he finally grabs the right chair and loses his balance picking it up, almost falling on his arse. He clings to the thought as he manoeuvres the giant monstrosity through Grimmaulds rather narrow corridors — this is _Malfoy's_ crazy adventure, why doesn't Grimmauld grow accordingly and makes all his wildest dreams possible? Harry thanks whatever deity is responsible for Malfoy not forcing him up the stairs as well and curses them for allowing the brat to scream and scold whenever Harry hits the chair into a wall, no matter how careful he was. He has all but forgotten about his quasi mantra as Malfoy tells him exactly where to set the heavy lump, changes his mind no less than five times and makes Harry pick it up and carry it to it’s new temporary home, because he would hate to see the floor marred with scratch marks. (He has no concerns about Harry's back, though, protesting as it is.)

While Harry labours his way into an early grave, Malfoy looks unbearably smug. He is directing Harry here and there, points with his dainty finger and wrinkles his delicate nose at Harry’s grunts of exertion and annoyance. Harry wants to do horribly filthy things to him. He wants to break that haughty voice into moans, wants to make him flush and forget about his interior design visions, press him into the wide and welcoming armchair and ravish him.

“Yes, it’s perfect there!” Malfoy looks around the empty room, hands sketching shapes in the air where he imagines the rest of the furniture. Harry allows himself to be tentatively hopeful. Malfoy declared things perfect several times now, before finding something grievous and unforgivable and making Harry move it again. “Well done, Potter. You earnt yourself some coffee.”

Great, now Malfoy talks to him like he is a very stupid, very slow dog that finally made some very tiny progress in something embarrassingly simple. He still looks delectable though, and Harry hasn’t stopped thinking of chasing that imperious attitude away since he swore his revenge for the stolen coffee. And now Malfoy provided him the perfect set-up.

Hoping to hide his burgeoning smirk behind the mug he quickly takes it when Malfoy offers, taking a gulp of coffee and pulling Malfoy closer — unsuspecting and smug as he is, he is easy to move once you get past the shocked flailing — to hold him against himself and press a kiss onto his mouth, graciously sharing his coffee with him.

It’s a lot grosser in reality than Harry thought it would be, Malfoy stuttering against him and frantically pushing against Harry’s shoulder.

He remembers too late that Malfoy doesn’t like kissing.

Harry immediately lets him go, feeling all kinds of horrible as he watches Malfoy shake and spit some disgusting mixture of coffee and saliva back into the mug Harry drank from. There is only so much Harry can blame on being tired and annoyed here, and kissing Malfoy when he explicitly state he doesn’t want to is crossing a big red line.

“Sorry, fuck, I'm so sorry!” Harry doesn’t know what he is saying, what he could _possibly say_ to make this better. There isn’t anything he can do, is there? Well, besides apologising and keeping his hands to himself, hoping for Malfoy to have a clearer idea of what to do. He is the injured party, after all.

It doesn’t look like Malfoy is even sure what happened. He is disgusted though, which is fair enough because Harry is disgusted with himself, too. Malfoy just kind of stares at Harry, hand up to his mouth as if needing to make sure it’s still there, not permanently damaged by Harry’s blind lust.

“Don't do that again, Potter, not that.” There is something odd about Malfoy’s voice, the words shaky and half whispered, and Harry abruptly realises that there must be some kind of _story_ here, something Malfoy didn’t tell him.

It’s somewhat shocking, that Harry would have taken this long to realise Malfoy is keeping what seems like a rather important secret from him. Not that Malfoy didn’t offer him his soul in gift wrapping and with a bow on top, it’s not like they really _talk_ to each other, let alone trust, but that Harry took this long to notice. He would have expected to smell a mystery sooner, and Malfoy is horrible at keeping them, anyway, getting all self-important and shifty when he fancies himself to be the only person in the room to be in the know. Harry should have noticed.

“I won’t, I swear I won’t!” Harry is desperate for Malfoy to believe him. It’s a bit ridiculous, to freak out over a little kiss, but Malfoy looks like his is about to shatter into a thousand pieces, only held together by the slippery slope of pride.

Harry is pretty sure that’s his fault. Malfoy was fine until Harry kissed him, his usual obnoxious self that normally would have gotten him pressed against a wall and a few new additions to the kissed bruises around his neck. Now, _after_ Harry kissed him (assaulted, more like, but that's a whole other crisis Harry doesn't have time to have) Malfoy is emphatically _not_ fine and Harry has no idea what to do, only that he wants to take it back, wants a Time-Turner to knock some sense into the idiot who was so annoyed at having to carrying some furniture that he completely forgot all boundaries.

Harry wants to _comfort_ Malfoy, which is such a weird thought that usually he wouldn’t even entertain it for a second before needing to think something mean and unfavourable about him to restore the balance of their lives. But this is hardly their usual, and Harry did enough damage, without adding mental jabs to the list. Comforting people is not something he is good at, though, not with people he likes and especially not with people who are confusing and irritating and so prickly that they would glare holes into him for trying.

Yeah, the smart thing would be to leave Malfoy to it, let him figure it out on his own and do him the courtesy of not mentioning it. A tactful veil of silence is by far the safest option.

On the other hand, Malfoy looks so fragile and Harry never possessed much self-preservation to begin with and before he even knows it, Harry steps closer again.

Malfoy startles, looking at him with wide eyes, terrified, and Harry curses himself because they literally _just_ went over this and how did he mess up _again_? He figures it’s too late for the ‘politely averted eyes’ plan, though, which only leaves the flight forward.

“Could I — I mean, I would _like_ to — no, don’t freak out! Jesus, Malfoy, I’m not going to kiss you again, relax. I already apologised for that, so you can — actually, it doesn’t matter. I wanted to, well, you look like you could use a hug?” Harry’s voice comes out strangled, pulling the end of his offer up and making it sound like a question. Because apparently the situation wasn’t awkward enough yet. Well done, Potter.

Malfoy looks at him as if he grew a second head, morbid fascination and befuddlement. Somehow, that is still better than offering to _hug_ _Draco Malfoy_ because he looked sad. Harry is certain Malfoy is measuring the perfect amounts of mocking and scathing to bake up a reply, when Malfoy inches closer, ever so slightly closer. So slight in fact, that Harry wouldn’t have believed he moved at all had he not seen it happen. But move he did, and it wasn’t further away or reaching for his wand to curse Harry’s hair green, which probably is a good sign? Well, it’s an assent, Harry isn’t sure when a chance to hug Malfoy became a _good_ thing.

(That’s not true, he knows perfectly well when that happened.)

(It only took that one time, standing in front of Sirius’ room, the calming intimacy they shared a heady drug Harry missed the moment they let go of each other.)

In the end, it doesn’t matter whether Harry should be this this excited at the prospect of holding once reviled Slytherins, because he wants to and Malfoy clearly wants it too, so he better not judge Harry. Besides, they do far more intimate things, a hug is nothing.

(It’s the opposite of nothing, it’s trust and comfort and intimacy, it’s understanding and something dangerously close to affection, to love.)

Malfoy watches him warily as he approaches, ready to take off any second, should he change his mind. Compared to Malfoy, Harry thinks he is handling the absurdity of the situation rather well, treating him too much like a spooked animal perhaps but altogether far more considerate of his skittishness than before while also keeping his own mini crisis quiet. Not that there is a crisis that needs to be happening, cuddling Malfoy is perfectly normal. Nothing to freak out and question everything over. It’s all fine, completely normal.

And then suddenly, Harry is holding Malfoy. He can feel his rapid breathing, his muscles drawn tight, everything in him poised to take flight. But Harry also feels the same calm from before seep into him, Malfoy fitting against his body as if they were designed to stand together like this, his hands grabbing at the back of Harry’s shirt and his face buried against his neck, desperately holding on.

Harry doesn’t understand what is passing through Malfoy’s head right now, what it is he inadvertently started with that kiss, but this is not the time to ask. Harry doesn’t have to understand to gather him close, to not let him go until he demands it, to hold him up while Malfoy sorts through his issues. After all, it’s not exactly a hardship, being pressed against an attractive man who trusts him with his vulnerable moments (Merlin knows _why_ they have this trust, they certainly did nothing to build it) and getting to play with his hair.

Grimmauld, too, approves, humming all around them like a fat, lazy cat stretching out in the sun. That almost constitutes as a miracle, after the horrible blunder Harry charged into head first. He already resigned himself to spending many more mornings disoriented on the floor, without Malfoy’s nudging Grimmauld this time. But apparently strict and ruthless pure-blood houses have a soft spot for cuddling. Who would have thought?


	10. Chapter 10

In many ways, their marriage is turning out far better than Draco dared to hope. He thought they would be stuck forever in that first phase, talking only if they had something sharp to say and not paying the other any mind, unless it’s to plot the next act of petty animosity. Surprisingly, they got past that; no one is more astonished than Draco. They are almost … comfortable, existing next to each other in the closeness enforced by Grimmauld and the deals they struck to ensure Potter’s bodily safety living here.

Draco was convinced Potter would be allergic to reasonable agreements, that he would insist on being a horrible brat and make Draco’s life miserable, demanding his rights as husband but not otherwise acting the part of partner. True, Potter does collect his dues, excessively often and with little warning, but Draco found ways to endure. His body, thankfully, seems to be able to produce all the things Potter expects, leaving him none the wiser about Draco’s recoiling mind.

It was a bit of a shock to find out that his body could easily supply Potter with all the right reactions, while also making Draco feel sick at the performance, close to a betrayal really, but Draco adjusted. It’s a good thing, surely, because Draco isn’t keen on explaining to Potter how he is broken, must be, and he is confident that soon he’ll be able to bear Potter’s touch without feeling soiled, disgusted by his own skin.

Besides, it’s not all bad. Some of Potter’s touch aren't revolting and the one thing Draco truly cannot allow Potter (mostly) accepted with nothing but a few confused looks. Among these, there are good touches too, friendly touches, that speak of intimacy and trust. They are a lazy remnant of Potter sating his urges, both of them needing a moment to catch their breath and calming their pumping hearts, Potter’s hands stroking over the flesh he roughly grabbed and soft lips nuzzling against skin he bit.

Draco is growing distressingly fond of those moments.

Potter’s skin isn’t as smooth as Draco’s, broken up by scars. There is the famous lighting bolt, of course, stretching over his face and calling out to be traced, though Draco never quite dared too. It feels too personal, Potter’s own feelings too complicated for Draco to force his opinion on there too. Potter has other scars as well, smaller and unknown. He tenses when Draco touches those, waiting for him to ask after them, but Draco never does. He doesn't want to talk about his own scar either (if you could call the hideous mark a scar, that is). He understands Potter’s reticence.

It’s obvious Potter doesn’t take great care of his skin, scars aside Draco is positive he could do better. They don’t share a bathroom, but they don’t need to for Draco to know that Potter doesn’t have the best products to treat his skin — if he has any at all. He seems like the kind of man who fell prey to the rhetoric of 'true men don't spend much time on hygiene' and consequently buys the product that claims to have the most functions, all in the same bottle. Potter spend a long time tracking through the wilderness during the war, and Draco would not be surprised to learn he kept up similar routines of personal hygiene even after that.

A true tragedy, Potter could have amazing skin.

Draco should lend him some of his expertise, show him that he doesn’t have to live like that. It's practically Draco's _duty_ to help! The only question that remain is how to convince Potter of that. Potter would never accept an outright recommendation, proud fool, but Draco isn’t a Slytherin for nothing. Draco can be sneaky when the situation calls for it. He’ll smuggle some nice things into Potter’s bath and before he even notices Draco exchanged his products, he’ll already recognise the benefits for himself. And Draco gets smoother skin to cuddle against. Everyone wins.

Draco can see it all so clearly, his stupidly idealistic dream, where Potter touches him with neither of them near tears or needing to rely on Potter not moving away too soon after he had his fun. They could exchange casual touches, passing by each other, a hand trailing over the others shoulder or pressing close when sitting next to each other. In all honestly, Draco doesn’t exactly know what that would look like in reality, how else touch is supposed to feature in a married couple if not in their bed, but he would very much like to try.

(He finally gave in to thinking about the possibilities of positive touch. He realised too late and by now he likes the dreams too much to stop.)

They are completely unrealistic, of course. Draco tries not to dwell on them.

The point is, things are going well. Potter is — after some gentle persuasion — willing to do as he is told, relieving Draco of the tedious task of carrying the furniture, and from time to time able to hold halfway decent conversations, even making Draco laugh sometimes. Yes, Draco is quite happy with where they are, despite having to make some sacrifices for it. He draws the line at inventing Weasley and Granger to lunch, though.

“They are my _friends,_ Malfoy. They just want to — I don’t know, get to know you a bit.” Potter is frustrated, prowling the room like a caged tiger and gesticulating wildly.

“They _do_ know me, you might remember that we went to school together? For _six years_ , Potter, I’m rather certain that qualifies as knowing someone.” Draco doesn’t understand where this hare-brained idea comes from, why Potter is this insistent that Draco ‘meet his friends’.

“Right, and you were a bloody git so I don’t understand _why_ they want to meet you,” Draco makes to protest here, because if anything _they_ behaved like bloody gits, but Potter rudely talks over him, further proving his point, “but they always point out that you are my — well, you know, that we are kind of married, and since we are both still alive they figure we must get along somehow and now they want to … re-evaluate, I guess.”

Well, this isn’t convincing. It’s rather insulting, actually, Potter calling their very real and binding marriage a ‘kind of’, as if it doesn’t truly count just because there is no love involved and they both agreed for their own selfish reasons that have nothing to do with cherishing each other until the end of days. And then the thought that Draco would need the _approval_ of Potter’s friends, the implication that he should be _elated_ at the chance of being judged again by the Wizarding Worlds most adored Golden Trio. Draco should refuse for that little speech alone.

“Just let them come to dinner, be your usual charming self, and they will never want to come again and finally stop bothering me.” Potter drops in his pacing, turning to grin at Draco as if he just presented the perfect solution. Which he didn’t, he just was even more directly insulting. Insulting enough, in fact, to make Draco reconsider the whole dinner and actually _be_ charming and pleasant, proving to Potter how stupid challenging him like this is.

But that would mean dinner with Granger throwing him acerbic remarks, dredging up all that history under the pretence of seeing how much Draco changed, if he is worthy of their precious Potter yet or if they need to take the risk of angering Grimmauld and file for divorce. It means Weasley prodding for something to make fun of the entire evening and them all being extremely pleased with themselves, giving each other Looks and judging Draco without there ever being words exchanged that he might defend himself against. Draco doesn’t need that in his life, he really doesn’t.

What he does need, is an ally. He could bring his own friends, of course he could. They would outnumber the pretentious little trio, and because Granger is the only one with any brain at all they would also have the bulk of the intellect in the room on their side. It could almost be fun, watching a small war unfold over their dinner table. If he is honest, though, Draco doesn’t exactly want to go back to fighting against Potter, not even in great style.

They have become horribly dull and domestic in what they fight about, whose turn it is to do the dishes and whether they can get rid of the ferrets yet (that one is purely for appearance sake, Draco has gotten used to having one of the sneaky little buggers to pet and teach how to do tricks, he wouldn’t give them up even if Potter suddenly changed his mind and agreed to return them). They argue about the decorations Draco planned as if Potter actually gets any say in them. Ever now and they even find things they can both complain about, Grimmauld forcing them together when they both already had separate plans for the evening, their friends being stupid and intrusive and making pointed remarks about their relationship as if they know anything about it.

No, Draco cannot bring them all. They are just as likely to embarrass him by sharing totally made up stories that make him look like a fool (perhaps not _totally_ made up, but definitely embellished to the point of little resemblance with the truth) as they are to do something useful and make Potter regret ever introducing the idea of combining friends and dinner. If Draco brings just one, however, one of them to horrify Potter and show him that it will take more to intimidate Draco … that might work.

They would still be smarter than Potter’s half of the table, but there would be no one to share fictional tales about Draco’s misadventures with and the danger of things derailing into Hogwarts-adjacent standards would be easier to control and contain.

“I want to bring Pansy,” Draco says, and watches in delight as Potter’s face falls. This is not how Potter had planned the discussion to go.

Pansy is the ideal choice (don’t tell her Draco admitted that, she would become unbearable) to make Potter uncomfortable and not only support but also entertain Draco. She would spend most of her time flirting with Granger and Weasley, which will be hilarious to witness and enrage Potter. Plus, this could be counted as a date, Draco is pretty sure (there is food involved, that will have to be good enough, he should probably ask Blaise for his opinion on the matter to be certain) and thus he would finally have fulfilled that favour. Pansy has been nagging him about it ever since she pressed him to agree.

“No, absolutely not! I have to listen to lovesick ramblings about Parkinson all the time now, I don’t also need to meet the woman, let alone _see_ them flirt. They keep asking me to judge who of the both of them she is actually interested in and I have no desire to be able to answer that question.” Potter shakes his head almost frantically, which is the best reaction Draco could have hoped for. Instead, Draco is oddly indignant on Pansy's behalf. It doesn’t make sense that he should be offended again; horrifying Potter to the point of cancelling dinner altogether was the plan.

Pansy might be a giant flirt and usually Draco would agree that yes, there is a rude awakening waiting for Weasley and Granger when she gets bored and moves on, but Pansy isn’t just playing around this time. Pansy is _invested_ , she cares and she has no intentions of moving on and adding them to her collection of broken hearts. For Potter to dismiss her like that, act like Pansy is the worst thing that could happen to his friends and should be kept away, well, Draco might become more interested in aiding Pansy in her wooing. Pansy deserves to be happy, and Draco won’t let Potter stand in the way because he has prudish views on monogamy and prejudices against Slytherins.

That doesn’t mean Draco wants the dinner, he is not quite that desperate to make Potter confront his human failures. But he is going to get Pansy her date, as many as she wants.

“Well, Potter, I have some news for you then. You are going to be the harbinger of the best news your besotted friends heard all year. Pansy wants a date, with both of them, and it’s you who gets the proud task of convincing them to actually agree and put them all out of their misery, when they finally realise that Pansy is indeed flirting with both of them and she can stop her pining and wooing in favour of being disgustingly in love. Don’t even think to argue either, you still owe me a favour.” Draco smirks as Potter glares at him, watches his mind work through what he said, trying to understand and find a way out of what must be his own personal horror scenario.

“Fine, no dinner then. But they do insist on meeting you — what do you propose I do about that? They won’t be kept away with a threat of Parkinson, either.” Potter is pleased at that, apparently not realising that he just confirmed Pansy’s chances of getting that date are better than she feared. If Draco is interpreting this right, they might even be quite keen on dating.

“I’ll think about something to save you from your friends, don’t worry about that, you just get them to agree to that date.” Draco, of course, has no intention of ever meeting them again, or of actually thinking of how this reunion could come about. He catches glances of them now and again, when they are besieging the house under the guise of visiting Potter, frowning at him and judging. Draco has no desire of having a _conversation_ about his inadequacies as husband to the great Harry Potter.

He knows Potter though, knows that he will insist on this solely to annoy Draco as soon as he realises how much Draco would like to avoid it, so maybe it’s best he never knows. Perhaps Draco could simply join them for one of their insipid … movie nights? He is pretty sure that is what Potter calls them, where they all usurp the living room and stare at that dreadful Muggle appliance Potter revelled in installing. They will all be busy talking amongst themselves and watching the loud box play out whatever it is they chose that evening and Draco will be forgotten, perfectly blended in and able to ward off any possible questions with the excuse of watching the tiny people fight for their lives. That’s actually a pretty brilliant plan, Draco should seriously consider that.

“Fine, I’ll get Parkinson that date, but she better not hurt them because I swear to whatever scares you the most, Malfoy, if she hurts them —” Potter trails off, out of words or aware that he doesn’t need impressively worded threats to make himself intimidating. He has quite the fearsome glower — only to be expected after the hell he went through, Draco supposes, one picks up certain things when being hailed as the first defender against evil — green eyes narrowed at Draco and something dark lurking in them, something that says clearly that his friends are not to be touched. That Draco would sorely regret it should he hurt them.

Potter needn't have worried; the way Pansy talks about these two, she would be willing to commit at least as many felonies as Potter should something happen to them. She would look better doing it too, if you take her word on that, though Draco personally always found something magnificent in Potter’s anger.

Draco doesn’t dignify him with an answer. He doesn't answer threats on his life by principle, but he also doesn’t think there is anything more to be said on the topic. Pansy will thoroughly charm the Weasleys, Draco will regret every decision he ever made that got them into that situation while simultaneously being happy for his friend (not an easy situation, he does _not_ look forward to that balancing act) and Potter will remain his usual insufferable self and blame all his problems on Draco. Nothing new here, nothing worth commenting on.

“Your threat has been noted. Would you finally move Elfrida Windsor-Stenham up to the ‘Official Rules and Regulations for Gobstones Tournaments’?” Draco is getting a bit impatient. If they don’t finish resorting this bookshelf quickly, they will have to leave its books strewn all over the floor for the night. Grimmauld won’t appreciate that.

It only happened once, and it was Potter who got the brunt of its anger and then refused to tell Draco about it, but they agreed to endeavour to keep Potter safe so that’s what Draco shall do. Even if that means repeating everything three times because you can talk to a mule and be understood faster than talking to Potter. Besides, Potter always gets so grumpy when he feels slighted and his mood has a way of spreading through the entire house, sooner or later affecting Draco, too.

Potter grumbles and glowers some more for good measure, but he does move the book. Much better, Draco doesn't know who previously organized the shelves or why it wasn’t in the section to begin with, but that is where it belongs. Only five more piles to sort through before they can call it a night.


	11. Chapter 11

They say you don’t appreciate things until you lose them. Harry, having lost plenty of good things before he had time to cherish them, always found himself inclined to agree. It’s true, people take the most astonishing things for granted; it’s only fair to raise their awareness before they go through the inevitable pain of losing them and learning the lesson for themselves. However, Harry never would have considered his deal with Malfoy to be counted among those good things.

Well, he supposes it’s not really the deal or the man himself Harry is missing. As far as he is aware, Malfoy is blissfully asleep in his bed and the deal still firmly intact. No, what Harry is acutely missing right now, has been missing for several hours, is the effect their sort-of-allegiance had on Grimmauld. That vindictive old house is trying to freeze him out, and Harry has no idea what he did to deserve this sort of treatment.

They have been getting along alright, fulfilling their sacred married duties without fights and murder threats and giving Grimmauld absolutely nothing to frown upon. They settled into something scarily domestic, sharing spaces more and more instead of just existing in them side by side. Granted, it was Ginny who pointed that out, dropping by to prove her infuriating theory of Harry’s alleged crush on Malfoy (talking to Hermione about not sharing her impressions of Harry’s love life with his ex turned out to be useless, Hermione refuses to see the problem and Ginny keeps on knowing too much) so nothing she said can truly be trusted, but it’s unsettling all the same.

Point is, things have been good. They found a way to get vaguely along, Harry learnt not to complain about Malfoy’s preference for heavy furniture and Malfoy … Harry isn’t sure if Malfoy is actively doing anything to ensure the peace, but even if not, Harry discovered ways to shut him up more efficiently than shouting insults ever did. Apparently that is not enough for Grimmauld anymore, and Harry is denied sleep and treated to faulty heating. Lovely.

It’s somewhat creepy, that their life is being manipulated and orchestrated by a house adhering to all the worst things about pure-blood culture (and that is a difficult choice to make, Ron complained about it for at least an hour, talking about traditions and how it's only ever the bad ones that stick), but Harry can think about that later, when he isn’t running in danger of losing his toes to the cold.

“Should just burn this bloody thing down; would be nice and warm, too,” Harry grumbles, turning over and pulling the blanket closer around himself. The temperature drops another few degrees.

Alright, fine. That’s enough. Harry doesn’t deserve this, never has and even so less now that he is trying to please dusty traditions. He bets Malfoy is sleeping this very moment, comfortable and warm and ignorant of the privilege he is experiencing. Merlin beware that _Malfoy_ might be uncomfortable. No, it’s always _Harry_ who ends up haunted by freezing draughts and confronted with sudden shifts of walls. Which is _so unfair_ , seriously; Malfoy is easily responsible for at least half their issues, but it’s never _him_ who is punished for them. Harry has quite enough of the double standard and blatant favouritism.

Furious, Harry jumps out of bed and grabs his glasses (tapping through the house blind like a mole will do him no favours), cursing at the house when his feet land on the cold floor and then he marches out of his room. He refuses to be treated like this any longer. Grimmauld wants him to freeze his arse off? Fine, but Harry will make damn sure that Malfoy won’t get free passes anymore.

Harry doesn’t bother keeping quiet as he stomps through the corridor, nor does he knock before slamming the door to Malfoy’s room open.

Let’s see what Grimmauld does with _that_.

Malfoy’s room is almost oppressively warm after the chill that settled deep into Harry’s room, a stark contrast that shocks Harry into momentary standstill. He was right, Malfoy is curled up on the bed like a cat, blankets wrapped around him and looking so heavenly _cosy_ — well, Harry doesn’t hesitate any longer. After all, this is exactly why he came here, to get some sleep and spit Grimmauld in the face, metaphorically. Actually, Harry is the right kind of grouchy to _literally_ spit Grimmauld in the face, should he find one somewhere.

Harry lets the door fall shut, idly notes that Malfoy doesn’t so much as stir (Harry envies him that, a bit; he doesn’t think he ever slept this deep, always ready to spring awake at the slightest of noises) and makes his way over the thick carpet.

This is shockingly easy. For obvious reasons (what with all of them having gone through a war and quickly coming to value the virtue of constant vigilance), Harry would have expected sneaking up on Malfoy to be a lot more difficult. Maybe that is just one of the perks of growing up pampered and adored, the absolute faith that he is safe and protected in his sleep. It’s hard to imagine that not even sharing his house with _Voldemort_ and his ilk would leave an indent in that illusion, Harry would have expected Malfoy to show some signs of trauma — Harry trips a ward.

Well, he _thinks_ that is what he did, he certainly passed something in his approaching of the bed, something with consequences that he can’t quite tell yet. A ward would make sense, more than Malfoy just happily sleeping away, completely unaware of anything —

“Potter? What are you doing here?” Malfoy asks, sounding surprisingly awake and not like someone who was deep asleep just seconds ago. So the war didn’t pass him without leaving its marks after all. The thought isn’t as vindicating as Harry thought it might be, more saddening really.

Malfoy sits upright in the bed, blankets fallen down around him and his wand calmly trained on Harry, whether to defend or attack Harry isn’t sure. This is markedly different from the last time Harry woke Malfoy in the middle of the night. Though to be fair, it wasn’t technically _Harry_ who had woken him that night. Still, that had turned out far more pleasant than this night promises to go, even if he was too busy freaking out to enjoy the development the last time. That is the one thing that hasn’t changed: Malfoy’s propensity to indecently alluring pyjamas. This time Harry isn’t too self-conscious to admit that he would like to slowly strip him of them, or maybe open them just far enough and enjoy the picture of debauchment.

Malfoy frowns at him, blush spreading over his face, and Harry winks. It’s always a delight to see Malfoy blush, to see him react to Harry and the helpless fury in his face. Harry could spend hours doing nothing but teasing him and watch that blush spread, watch as Malfoy loses control over his body. Considering the late hour and how little sleep Harry got, that is a surprisingly good idea. He should try it sometime.

“Was there something you wanted, Potter, or did you just come to stare at me?” Malfoy is sullen, cranky at being woken up and flustered at what he could gleam of Harry’s thoughts. At least he has stopped holding Harry at wand point. Harry might not have expected Malfoy to _use_ the thing, not after he processed the initial shock of someone intruding in his bedroom, but Harry feels better with it disappearing back under the pillow or wherever Malfoy keeps it to soothe his anxieties.

He is also right, there was indeed something Harry wanted.

“Your house is sulking and creating some kind of winter wonderland in my room.” That’s not quite what Harry wanted to say, closer to snitching than a mature and valid complain, and Malfoy raises his eyebrow at him, unimpressed. Oh well, Malfoy doesn’t have to be impressed to let Harry stay. As long as he gets some sleep soon and a warm blanket to wrap up in, Harry doesn’t care what Malfoy thinks.

“How come it’s only ever _my_ house when you need me to fix something or someone to blame for your little feud?” Malfoy asks idly, as if Harry’s choice of words is really the issue here and what deserves concentrating on, as if he doesn’t do the exact same thing when the mood strikes him.

Harry doesn’t dignify him with an answer, mostly because he doesn’t want to tell him it’s about pettiness and making his life difficult wherever he can, and also because he is already tired of the argument Malfoy can pull out of thin air if he so chooses.

“The _point_ , Malfoy, is that I can’t sleep in my own bed and I would like to _not_ spend this night shivering on a virtual block of ice.” Malfoy doesn’t answer, just gazes at him evenly, looking for all the world as if Harry’s plight doesn’t concern him at all. Well, maybe it really doesn’t, but Harry is seldom inclined to agree with Malfoy and he certainly isn’t about to start now, when all it would get him is being banned back out and into the cold. “Move over already. I hope you don’t hog the blankets because honestly, I think I need them more than you at this point.”

Malfoy doesn't move, sitting impossibly still. His eyes have gone wide, dramatically so since Harry is able to make it out in the low light, and pulls the blankets up and around his body, shielding himself in a flimsy cocoon of useless fabric.

“You want to — _here_?” Malfoy asks, scandalised.

That is not the reaction Harry expect, not at all. Surely it’s not _that_ unreasonable to ask to share the bed for a night, especially considering the circumstances. It’s not like Harry is particularly keen on sleeping next Malfoy either; as it stands it just barely beats taking the spiteful route and not sleeping at all. And _Malfoy_ is the one who gets to gloat and lord this over Harry, so whatever his problem is, Harry had quite enough of it.

“What, worried about your virtue?” Harry mainly asks as a joke, hopes perhaps that it will shake Malfoy out of his stupor, but Malfoy flinches and Harry suddenly feels sick.

Harry thought Malfoy might scowl at him, or wrinkle his nose, something silly and endearing while he mutters about propriety and discretion — but _flinching_? That can’t be good. Harry is too tired to pay it much attention, but there is something else there, something nagging at the back of his mind and calling for him to connect the dots.

Harry shoves it all aside; he can deal with Malfoy’s skittishness and what it means later, after he got some sleep.

“Right, do you need me to tell you how ridiculous that is?” Harry hopes he doesn’t, that Malfoy catches himself and can act like a normal person again, blush or scowl or get in on the joke or do anything but _stare_ , but he doesn’t. Harry sighs — how does he deserve this? “Well, first, nothing we haven't done before, yeah? No virtue left to tarnish. Also, and more importantly, I genuinely am tired and would very much like to sleep, so if you don’t mind —”

Harry moves to climb into the bed, as far away from Malfoy as possible because whatever is going on in his mind, Harry doesn’t want to have to deal with it, but the second he touches the bed Malfoy jumps up like a cat someone threw into the tub. Harry freezes, watches Malfoy frantically try to free himself of the blanket he is tangled up in, hopping on one leg and with no hint to his usual grace. It would be hilarious had Harry not the pretty persistent impression of Malfoy _fleeing_ him.

“It’s fine, you take the bed, I’m sure I’ll find somewhere else to sleep!” Malfoy even _sounds_ panicked and Harry has no idea what he did to provoke that kind of reaction but whatever, Malfoy leaving the bed to him means he doesn’t have to share, anything else can wait until tomorrow. If only because Malfoy is already out of the door, so he would have to get up and run after him and try to convince Malfoy to stay and really, that just isn’t worth the effort.

Harry is distantly aware that he _probably_ should have tried to reassure Malfoy that he doesn’t have to leave, that he is the kind of pretentious bastards who has a bed big enough for half an army and they could easily share without doing so much as breathe the same air, but, well, too late for regrets. Besides, it’s not his fault Malfoy decided to be weird about this. They could have shared this bed, strictly platonic like people who might, in the muddy darkness, be called _friends,_ and Harry would have been completely fine with that. This is Malfoy’s bed, after all, he had no intentions of throwing the git out of his own bed.

Harry feels a little bad about his hasty escape. Malfoy is the one trapped in the cold rest of the house now and he will soon come to understand why Harry thought coming here acceptable.

Wait, no, that’s stupid. Malfoy won’t get frozen, Harry must be seriously sleep-deprived if he forgot about that unspoken rule. If anything, _Harry_ will be woken by the cold finally advancing into the master bedroom as well, now that Malfoy isn’t here anymore. Harry smothers his groan in one of the million pillows. He should have stopped Malfoy running away.

Can’t be helped anymore, he supposes. Currently it’s still nice and soft here, comfort and warmth wrapping heavily around Harry and pulling him down, lulling him to sleep —

“Potter?” Malfoy whispers into the dark, dragging Harry back up into awareness.

Harry curses silently, he was so close to sleep already! Maybe, if he doesn’t react, Malfoy will think him still asleep and leave him alone? A foolish hope perhaps, but Harry doesn’t want to deal with him right now, not when he is quasi almost asleep already.

“Are you awake?” No, no he is not. How long is Malfoy going to take to get the message? What does he even want? He couldn’t get out fast enough before.

How long ago was that? Great, Harry had already lost track of time, he must have been really close to sleeping before Malfoy came back.

“Right, of course not, that was the point after all. I’ll just leave then, I guess, maybe I can —”

Malfoy _doesn't stop_ rambling, talking to himself and stalking through the room, steps sure in the darkness. Harry has little capacity to be impressed with his apparent night vision, not when it keeps him from sleeping. He reached the end of his patience like 5 failed attempts at sleep ago, it’s getting really old.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Harry grumbles into one of the pillows, already wishing that he hadn’t. Not that ignoring him would have helped any, Malfoy sounds the kind of lost that would have him traipsing in search of a solution for hours if Harry didn’t stop him.

“Potter?” Malfoy pauses, asking into the darkness as if surprised by his question. Just wonderful.

“No, Santa Claus, who do you think?”

“Excuse me?” Of course Malfoy doesn’t understand sarcasm. Or maybe the Muggle reference, though that wasn’t too difficult to follow, not even for pampered pure bloods. There was nothing at all to follow and connect, come to think of it.

“Are you _seriously_ saying you don’t — no, you know what? We aren’t doing this right now. You'll tell me whatever was worth waking me up and then I can _finally_ sleep. And you won’t be waking me tomorrow at some barely even real hour of the morning, understood?” Harry sits up, searching in the room for Malfoy (which is of course useless, but since he is already up he might as well), hoping to see him nod and slink back out again.

Harry might have _said_ he wants to hear his reasoning, but Malfoy quietly disappearing would honestly be best.

“You make it sound like it wasn’t _you_ who started these night-time wanderings in the first place.” Malfoy is moving again, closer towards the bed, the sounds growing louder. Harry thinks he can almost see him now, his hair shining like a beacon.

“ _You_ are the one who got weird! It’s not my fault you have hang ups about sharing a bed and ran out of here the second you realised _I_ wouldn't be the one leaving.” Harry doesn’t know how Malfoy always does that to him, riles him up and gets him involved in arguments and fights when just seconds ago he was almost perfectly content and asleep.

“Yes, well I thought you wanted … doesn’t matter, just, can we please go to sleep?” There it is again, that _thing_ tugging at Harry’s mind, whatever Malfoy is very consciously not saying. He is right though, there are better things to be doing than trying to crack Malfoy’s stubborn silence.

“That’s what I have been saying this whole time, as you might remember?” Harry allows himself to fall back into bed, pulling the blankets up around him and snuggling down into the pillows.

“Yes, Potter, you were right all along and it’s so cold that my fingers are frozen off, could I please get back into my warm bed now?” If Malfoy weren’t so annoyingly persistent, Harry might be tempted to muse a bit longer, to make Malfoy stand in wait while he decides, but in the end that would only torture them both. Other times Harry might be willing to sacrifice his own comfort to see Malfoy squirm, but this is not one of them.

“Fine, come on then.” No sooner has Harry said the words that Malfoy climbs on, immediately crawling under the blanket and laying down as far from Harry as possible.

Finally it is silent, darkness falling back over them both and sleep calling —

“Wait, _you_ were freezing, too?” Harry feels abruptly wide awake, the realisation shaking everything he took for granted. _Malfoy_ just got his own dose of disapproving Grimmauld.

“Yes, I thought we established that? In case it wasn’t clear, I don’t want to talk about this night ever again.” Malfoy doesn’t sounds nearly as happy as Harry about the news — which, yeah, could be the late hour, Harry isn’t thrilled about that either — grumbling and sulking.

“But this is brilliant!” Malfoy doesn't answer in favour of keeping up his muttering, though it's nothing Harry can easily make out and he doesn’t care enough to ask about it. “That means Grimmauld at long last stopped with the blatant favouritism!”

Changing that heavily biased approach had been what Harry hoped to achieve, of course, but over the months of marriage and every tiny detail needing cutthroat negotiating and concessions, Harry had as good as given up on it.

“I’m _aware_ , Potter; could you wait until tomorrow before you throw me out?” Malfoy has stopped muffling his words in the bedding, going so far as to turn around to tell Harry just why exactly he is an idiot for being excited about this. Well, the idiot part is implied. Actually, the near-pleading is wholly unexpected to Harry.

“What?” Harry asks, somewhat dumbfounded, and Malfoy predictably doesn’t answer. “Malfoy, what are you talking about?”

“Merlin, Potter, don't be dense! This is what you wanted, isn't it? For Grimmauld to respect you? Well, congratulations, goal achieved, you can finally be rid of me.” The words break out of Malfoy, like they have been seething under the surface, waiting to be free.

Harry still has no idea what he is talking about.

“What?” Harry can practically see Malfoy roll his eyes at him, despite the surrounding night.

“I really thought you were more intelligent than this, it's hard to see why. You made no secret out of hating me, and by law the property is more yours than it’s mine simply because it was _you_ who brought it into the marriage. You can finally declare your intentions of divorcing me and throw me out of the house. I should warn you though, that won’t play out as you think it will — I will fight for this house and don’t think for a moment that Grimmauld would ever choose you over me,” Malfoy presses out, not stopping once for air as if Harry would interrupt him at the slightest chance.

Malfoy laid out his accusations like they are the only logical steps from here on, like they are obviously what is going to happen and Harry just didn’t admit that to himself yet, and in a certainly light Harry supposes he is right. That is definitely something he could do, if he were stupid enough to think one kind gesture equals a promise Grimmauld was intent on keeping. In the first days after marrying Malfoy, that might have been what Harry thought would happen, that one glorious day he would be an accepted human living in this household and he could return to his life blissfully free of Malfoy. Oh how naive he had been, he really thought it would be this easy. The technicalities at least, Harry always knew that living with Malfoy is anything _but_ easy.

“Malfoy, calm down! No one is getting divorced and no one is throwing anyone out, alright? Look, I'm too tired for any of this, but we’ll talk about it tomorrow, definitely, okay?” If Harry has any say in it, they are _not_ going to talk about it tomorrow. Most likely Malfoy will be intent on avoiding the conversation as well, so that should work out fine. Fairer as Grimmauld might be now, it doesn’t actually change their situation at all. Harry still needs the git, nothing new to discuss there.

Malfoy doesn’t answer. The silence stretches out, fertile soil for all kind of ugly thoughts, and Harry can almost hear Malfoy thinking, the cogs turning in his head and his tongue making that irritated clicking noise when he is mentally stuck somewhere, when he doesn’t understand something no matter which way he looks at it. Harry sighs, there is no way he can go back to sleep like this. They apparently _do_ have something to discuss.

“Fine, so we are doing this _now_. I have absolutely no intentions of divorcing you, let alone try to banish you from Grimmauld. I don’t know what kind of arse you think me, but it’s obvious how much this house means to you and how much lifeblood you put into renovating it — even if I were deluded enough to think Grimmauld would forgive me for kicking you out, I could never do that to you.” Personally, Harry thinks that sums it up pretty neatly, considering he didn’t have much time to think and he currently operates on, like, 40% of brain power only, the rest probably dead from sleep-deprivation. Sure, he could do better, given the proper resources, but this will just have to be good enough for now.

Malfoy vaguely hums. Not good enough, then.

“Oh for — look at me.” Malfoy doesn’t, perhaps only to be contrary and difficult, but Harry doesn’t have the patience for either of these things. Blindly he gropes for Malfoy’s head, getting lucky surprisingly quickly, and taking his face into his hands to pull them closer together, bridging the darkness between them just a tiny bit. “I don’t actually hate you.”

They both lay there, huddled into their respective blankets, Harry’s fingers half-tangled in Malfoy’s hair and half stroking his face, gazing into each others eyes without either of them saying a word. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, not as such. It’s not even awkward, doesn’t make Harry itch to move and press an answer out of Malfoy like he would have bet it would, had he been asked prior to this weird night, where nothing seems to be as it should. The silence feels almost pleasant, something gently building between them, taking all the time in the world as they just … lay there.

Malfoy’s skin is soft, so incredibly soft under his hands. Harry knew that, of course he did, this is hardly the first time they touch, but nonetheless it feels like a revelation. His hair, too, is smooth, slipping around his fingers and escaping the curls Harry tries to form them into half-minded. They are close enough to each other that Harry is sure he could count Malfoy’s eyelashes if he had a little more light, close enough that every love story Harry ever saw or read demands he leans forward to kiss Malfoy. It would magically solve all their problems, say all the things they would never put into words and might not even have figured out for themselves and everyone would be happy.

Right, Harry sharply reminds himself that this is _not_ a love story, that Malfoy hates being kissed, and that everyone already is perfectly content, thank you very much.

“Malfoy?” he asks, because clearly his sleepy mind can’t be trusted not to go to preposterous places with no new input.

Malfoy still doesn’t say a thing, and if Harry didn’t see his open eyes (his lovely, deep grey and warm eyes) Harry would think Malfoy drifted off to sleep. Then Malfoy takes a small breath, lifts his head in defiance, anticipating blows and steeling himself to bear them, and he _smiles_ at Harry. It’s a quirked, little thing, and Harry feels his heart melt a bit at the sight. (Which is solely to blame on it being late and him being tired and smiling generally being associated with happiness or whatever. Point is Harry didn’t coo over Malfoy, internally or otherwise.)

“That’s not my name, you know?” Malfoy whispers into the space between them, the first words he spoke after bleeding out his insecurities onto Harry. And _that_ is what he decides to go with.

Harry snorts, laughter and a dazzling relief bubbling up in him.

“What, want me to call you Black?” Technically, Harry supposes they are both of them Blacks, though by mutual unspoken agreement they never even once called each other anything but Potter and Malfoy and the occasional insult, to avoid confusion (keeping to old names also neatly evades the reality of marriage to someone previously consider an enemy, which is always a plus).

“How about Draco?” Malfoy — Draco? — pauses, gathering his thoughts and courage before forging on. Harry is too stunned to say anything half-way intelligent. “We _are_ married, after all. The way I understand it, spouses usually call each other by their first name, if only because they share the same last name and can’t with proper manners keep referring to each other as such.”

Malfoy is babbling, his nerves run away with him and tumbling out of his mouth as they pop up in his head. It’s rather charming, and Harry is totally going to blame that thought on the recent lack of sleeping. Seriously, he’ll just blame the entire night on that, everything that might be said or implied or felt.

“Shows how little imagination they have, but if that’s what you prefer,” Harry says, because he is unsure what the expected response here is and because he might explode if he starts thinking of all the things charming about Malfoy. Malfoy looks at him with wide eyes, expectant, prodding and, oh, that is what Harry is supposed to say. Alright then, if the night already doesn’t really count. “Draco.”

Draco. The name feels nice on his tongue, much nicer than Malfoy, softer. Harry could get used to that. He could also very much get used to the sharp intake of breath, the look of wonder on Malfoy’s face. Draco’s face. Yes, that’s better.

Draco looks at Harry like he doesn’t believe this is really happening, like he doesn’t know what to do now or how to process this, Harry saying his name. Harry understands; he feels it too.

“I don’t hate you either, Harry.” Draco says the words like they are a secret, meant only for him, and Harry’s brain stutters to a halt. Harry, Draco called him by his first name. Harry completely understands the urge to smile like a besotted idiot now. He gets it and it's dark and it doesn't matter anyway, and so Harry smiles.

The sounds rings warm in his ears, the way Draco says his name, hesitant as if fearing Harry might insists on Potter, rich and golden like honey. Intimate, above all. Yeah. Harry much prefers this to Potter and Malfoy.

“That’s good to hear,” Harry says, like a fool, trying to mean everything — the name and the reassurance of feelings lighter than hatred — and ultimately ending up sounding confused but polite about it. And then, to make it even worse, he yawns wide enough to make any lion jealous.

Draco laughs at him. Harry didn't expect that Draco has a more pleasant laugh than his scornful, mean one, let alone that it would sound like the breathless giggling currently infecting Harry too. He doesn’t really care though, because even if this night will be forgotten in the morning, it’s nice. He still holds Draco’s face, can feel him smiling and laughing, and Harry feels giddy from it, from their closeness and the absurdity of it all.


	12. Chapter 12

Harry said this before and he will say it again: he is not a morning person. At all. Especially not when the night before saw him getting little sleep and possibly imaginary emotional debates — in the harsh light of late morning it seems somewhat more unlikely that he and Malfoy (yes, _Malfoy_ because whatever his hazy memories tell him, Harry finds it hard to believe they achieved some kind _bonding_ last night) had a heart-to-heart the likes of which Hermione had been urging him to initiate since he signed the papers. Apparently pretty much every book recommends that you ‘foster intimacy’ with your spouse as soon as possible to make the marriage agreeable to both parties, something ‘immensely facilitated after building an environment where everyone feels safe and comfortable expressing their needs and desires’. Harry heard the lecture often enough that he could recite it his sleep.

That might have been exactly what happened, come to think of it. The dangers of sharing one bed, no control over what your mind decides to share when exploiting the fact that common sense and preservation instincts are currently asleep. Harry never talked in his sleep, but it’s entirely feasible that he dreamed of hearing Hermione's disappointment again, scolding him over the latest escalation and yet again telling him he needs a better relationship to Malfoy if he wants this to work. Which is of course what Hermione never properly understood: Harry knows how to share the house with people who would just as soon see him dead, Malfoy is nothing against the Dursleys. Still, perhaps his sleepy brain manufactured a scenario where he listened to Hermione (and why shouldn’t he, listening to Hermione always served him well) and it led to, well, whatever you want to call _that_.

It’s a good theory, much more likely than what seems to be the obvious truth, but it doesn’t explain why Harry woke up with Malfoy curled against him.

Not that it's a _mystery_ , exactly. They shared the bed because neither of them was too proud to refuse the only bed not frozen and to sleep somewhere else, where they would have risked loosing a few toes (odd, Harry would have thought if there is one thing they both have in abundance, it’s the unhealthy pride that should have kept both of them far away from the sanctuary of this bed, perhaps in form of competing to see who can bear the cold with more grace) and naturally gravitated towards each other’s warmth. Simple enough. _Biology._

Equally simple to explain away is the fact that Harry _likes_ cradling Malfoy in his arms, gliding his hands over his spine and carding his fingers through his hair. They wouldn’t be having sex if Harry didn’t enjoy touching Malfoy, if he didn’t revel in the smoothness of his skin and how soft his hair is. Even the cuddling isn’t new, though this is the first time that they don’t have the excuse of having to catch their breath before they can move again. Malfoy is always tactile after sex, and Harry indulges him happily enough, but it feels different when they aren’t covered in sweat and gasping for air.

Harry kind of likes this too, though.

He dreads having to justify this to Malfoy, who probably won’t be too pleased when he wakes up and finds himself smothered, but for now Harry really likes this. It’s a contrasting kind of intimacy, stolen as it is at the moment, one that feels more profound than anything else they shared. Harry can almost see it, how easily they might slip into domestic bliss form here. They would start sleeping in the same bed on their own accord, not because Grimmauld pushed them to, and wake up like this, tangled together and peaceful, weirdly intimate conversations held at night that Harry won’t have to doubt because it’s simply part of how they work, a beloved tradition that started right here.

Harry didn’t realise how badly he wanted that future.

Well, no, he was perfectly aware; he is neither stupid not completely oblivious. Harry knows he wanted someone to share his life with, to fill the house with love and laughter and a few children, somewhere down the line. It’s all very cliched, white picket fences and neighbours they would invite over for BBQ, even a garden that, against all expectations, survives Harry’s ineptitude with plants and blooms and grows magnificently.

The only surprising part about this is that now, apparently, that person he imagines sharing his life with is _Malfoy._ Very specifically Malfoy too, no longer a blank placeholder until Harry found the right person.

The same thing happened with Ginny, the sudden and all encompassing conviction that Harry could spend his life like this. Only, Ginny never fit quite as neatly into the house Harry’s mind so kindly provided, evidence of a childhood focused too intensely on getting out and away to this ideal house he build for himself. Harry never quite expected to get there, of course, as is the habit with most escapist fantasies, but then it became a viable possibility and, well, Malfoy fits right in.

It would be terrifyingly easy to just … reach out and grab what he has been dreaming of. They are basically there already, all it would take is —

“Harry?” Malfoy stirs in his arms, voice rough from sleep and muffled against his shoulder. Harry freezes, one hand buried deep in Malfoy’s hair and the other slung over his back, holding him close as his mind took them far away.

Harry, Malfoy called him Harry.

Harry … doesn’t know how to feel about that. No, that’s not — he _does_ know how he feels, warm and giddy and oddly pleased, but that is neither here not there. What is he supposed to _do_ with that? It’s just a name, nothing to get excited about.

“Harry? Why are we awake? It’s —” Malfoy yawns, it’s unfairly endearing. “It’s far too early.”

The words are heavy with sleep and difficult to make out, but Harry thinks he got the gist and then Malfoy presses closer to escape the light and Harry doesn’t care anymore. Because this is brilliant, no matter what Malfoy said.

Also, unless Malfoy had the same dream as Harry, they _did_ have that conversation, confessing their mutual not-hatred and testing each other’s names on their tongues. Huh, Harry would have sworn there is too much history between them to leave space for the unpredicted intimacy of their given names.

“Draco?” Malfoy doesn’t stir, largely asleep again, but Harry rather likes the sound of that. It’s softer, closer, a person Harry never knew existed behind ‘Malfoy’.

“Draco,” Harry says again, because he can and apparently they already talked about it, so he might as well. Worst case scenario, Draco reconsiders the name thing and the implied trust of it and Harry has to blame this on the lack of coffee to save face.

Draco isn’t shocked awake, doesn’t jump up and demands Harry take it back, that they are still Potter and Malfoy and Harry should probably go back to his own bed now, anyway.

That was to be expected. It might not be too early but they didn’t sleep until late and, as far as Harry can see, Draco isn’t a morning person either if he doesn’t have a packed schedule and drank too much caffeine. What Draco does do, however, is stretch himself, languidly, like a cat, yawning again and nestling back against Harry. If Harry weren’t already sold on morning cuddles, that would have done it.

Draco blinks up at him from behind his tousled hair (Harry proudly claims at least 70% percent the blame on that one, the rest is sleep) his eyes slowly growing more aware but loosing none of the softness.

Draco only half conscious is a beautiful thing, Harry has learnt that quickly. It didn’t take him long to appreciate it either, the lazy grabbing motions Draco makes after sex, like he is coming out of a trance, seeking touch with the grace of a stumbling baby rabbit and an ethereal shimmer granted to him by his pale complexion. Harry could stare at him for hours, just laying here and going up in lethargy.

“Tea?” Draco asks, apparently awake enough now to be aware of being half asleep and wanting to change that state. Harry has no idea _why_ he would want to shake the pleasant bubble of lazy nothing, but it doesn’t matter, they don’t have tea, not unless one of them gets up to make some.

“Sorry, just woke up.” Which is a lie, sure, but most likely to placate Draco into settling back down.

“Longer than me, go make tea.” Draco pushes at his shoulder (ineffective, since he is still draped all over Harry) and Harry heaves a sigh and amends: he could watch Draco for hours, provided he doesn't talk. Draco gets demanding when he talks, and Harry doesn't feel like getting up to make tea.

Although, he has to admit, the idea of breakfast does sound appealing. Especially if it gets Draco to stop his poking, that is just — Harry yelps and would have leaped off the bed, were it not for Draco laying on him and weighing him down. Instead of sitting upright, Harry flops back down, glaring at Draco who looks at him in shocked innocence, fingers still poised over Harry’s side.

Oh no, this isn’t good. If Draco realises what this means, namely that Harry is extremely ticklish, then — Draco smirks at him, sharp and dangerous, and Harry has about half a second for the dawning horror before Draco is on him again, cruelly digging his fingers into Harry’s sides and grinning like a madman as Harry shrieks.

In his few misguided months in Auror training, Harry learnt that he might have an aptitude for combat but not the desire for it. He also got several recommendations and quickly progressed in his courses, Harry created quite the name for himself as someone you didn’t want to be paired in a fight with.

Given all that, it’s extremely embarrassing that Harry can’t seem to escape Draco’s attack. To be fair though, this is not exactly a situation Aurors are trained for. All Harry can do is gasp for air and hope that maybe, if he is very lucky, his wild flailing will actually land a hit and shove Draco off of him.

It doesn’t, of course, Draco sits securely enough straddling Harry’s hips, looking smug and obnoxiously pleased with himself as he grants Harry a respite to catch his breath. Big mistake, giving Harry room to think. Because really, now that Harry can see clearly again, this is fairly simple. Harry smirks up at Draco, watches in satisfaction as he frowns in confusion and uses that momentum to flip them over.

Draco makes an odd yelping sound as he looses his balance and victory never sounded so sweet. Now _Draco_ is the one helplessly pinned to the bed, prey to Harry’s revenge and depended on his mercy. That doesn’t bode particularly well for Draco, Harry isn’t feeling too gracious after being rudely attacked. Despite how things looked so far, Harry _does_ know how to do this, the ridiculous tickle fights, even if they didn’t go over this in Auror training.

Harry might not have much in terms of siblings (only a cousin he doesn’t intend to count, even though Dudley would be the closest thing to a sibling, if one goes by blood and convention) but he does have something just as good, perhaps even better. Harry has Ron, who made it his mission to include Harry in these things. Ron started pillow fights in the dorm even when they were _technically_ too old for that already (they were 13 at that point, far too grown up for something so silly, they all solemnly agreed, before Seamus threw a pillow in Neville's face and the fight was on) and who invited Harry into his home, showing him the glorious hell of having a huge and nosey family. If Ron were here right now, he would be disappointed to see Harry overpowered by Draco so easily.

Intend on making Ron proud, Harry descends on Draco for his revenge.

Starting this game in a dorm full of people more experienced and skilled than Harry at finding and exploiting particularly ticklish places, he had to learn how to fight dirty to hold his own. Of course, in the end they were all ruthless and no one was standing referee, brandishing about a book of rules to make sure everyone was being fair and considerate (that would defeat the point, wouldn’t it?) but Harry is quite proud of how well he adapted. Draco doesn’t stand a chance.

Draco … doesn’t look impressed.

“Is that all you have to offer, Potter?” he asks, his tone drawled in affected boredom, one elegant eyebrow raised. It’s a challenge, daring Harry to do his worst and promising that Draco would will remain unimpressed.

Well, Draco has always been cocky and Harry has always enjoyed taking him down a peg (or two, or three. Things could get ugly between them, their respective friends gathered to pour oil into the fire). Some things just never change. Harry, because he is predictable and could never quite pull himself out of Draco’s grasp, accepts the challenge and charges in headfirst.

He goes for Draco’s sides first, expecting him to immediately start squirming and preparing to hold him down and close when that happens, but it … doesn’t.

Draco just keeps looking at him, a small smile tugging at his lips. Draco thinks he won, is most likely mentally writing his victory speech this very moment. He should know Harry better than that — as if he would admit defeat this quickly! Harry will get that smug little smile off of his face and then he will claim his rights as winner and make Draco prepare breakfast. Because Harry knows how to handle responsibly, absolutely.

10 minutes later, and Harry succeeded in his quest, if you look at it in the right light. He got Draco to laugh, even! Unfortunately, Harry strongly suspects that has more to do with his grumpy face than any allusions to having tickled Draco into recognising Harry’s superior skills.

“You are cheating, you aren’t ticklish!” Even to his own ears Harry sounds sulky, and the accusation only makes Draco laugh harder. Which is nice, too, Harry supposes, but it would have been nicer if he were laughing because of Harry’s fingers tracing over his bare feet.

“How could it be cheating if I never claimed anything else?” That is … actually, that is unfairly correct. Technically.

Harry doesn’t answer.

“Are you pouting because you know I'm right?” Harry doesn't answer _that_ either, but going by Draco’s smug smile he doesn’t have to.

They lay like that for a while, Draco in his victory and Harry plotting his revenge — his head rests rather comfortably on Draco’s stomach after dropping there in defeat and Draco idly curls his fingers through his hair; Harry feels a tiny bid bad about scheming against him — until Draco grows restless again and he uses the grip on Harry’s hair to pull his head up.

“I still want that tea, you know?”

“Yeah? Too bad I didn’t win the fight then, I was planning on using my rights as champion to make you get us breakfast. You would have had your tea by now.” Harry grins at him, because it's a bit funny and you have to take your enjoyment wherever you can. Draco’s answering scowl only makes him grin wider.

“Well, since _I_ am the champion it’s only fair that _you_ should make breakfast. That was the plan after all, wasn’t it?” Draco smiles at him, all deceptive sweetness and gentle carding through Harry’s hair, and Harry would very much like to point out that it was _not_ the plan. He isn’t that stupid though.

Harry's hair is a precious thing, sensitive, and Draco already proved that he is neither above playing dirty, nor concerned about abusing the hold he has on Harry. He would rather not test how far Draco is willing to stray from honour and virtue, not right now at least. What Harry needs is a diversion.

(Idly, he notices how absurd this situation is, calling Malfoy Draco and talking about eating breakfast together — when did they get so comfortable with each other? But then, Harry supposes neither of them does things halfway. If they are going to be domestic, they are going to do it _right_.)

“Trust me, you don’t want me to make breakfast, I burn pretty much everything every time, without fail.” That is a lie and not a particularly convincing one. Harry does know how to make breakfast, the Durselys made sure of that and Molly taught him how to enjoy it, most of the time.

It does the trick though. Draco grimaces at the thought of burned tea and Harry doesn’t fear he’ll be pushed out of bed to make breakfast now. He also, unfortunately, doesn’t like the unhappy pout on Draco's face one bit.

“I could go to a bakery while you make tea?” Harry doesn’t know why he offers, getting dressed to face the world is about the last thing he wants to do, worse than trudging into the kitchen to make breakfast on his on, but Draco’s face lights up and the matter is decided.

Draco must be aware of how quick Harry is to regret his offer; before Harry can blink twice he is bombarded with clothes that Draco deems acceptable to wear for a quick food run and is ushered out of the floo with strict instructions to bring home ‘something nice, Potter’.

How utterly _not_ helpful that is, Harry only realises once he stands inside the closest bakery, staring at the sheer endless options of all kinds of things Harry couldn’t name if there was a gun to his head, the baker not even bothering to hide their impatience and the line grumbling behind him. Something nice, Draco said, and Harry thinks bitterly that he couldn’t have been more vague if he tried. Why bother saying anything at all if what you do say is — oh!

Between he sudden whirlwind of things to do and put on and leave, Harry almost wouldn’t have caught Draco’s pleased little smirk, or he would have written it off as Draco crowing over getting Harry to do the more annoying task, involving people and decisions and _clothes_. But Harry didn’t spent all his life watching Draco to _not_ recognise a challenge when he sees one. This is a test, one Draco is sure Harry will fail. Just as with the tickling. Harry is determined to not prove Draco right again.

Something nice, Draco said, which means whatever Harry brings him, it can only be wrong. Or perhaps it’s less malicious than that, perhaps Draco honestly just wants to test how well Harry knows him, but whatever the case, Harry’s purchase will be judged.

The perfect opportunity to impress.

“I’ll take two of each, please.” Harry smiles, the baker gapes and the line behind him groans.

* * *

Buying expensive amounts of food for pure-bloods, Harry wryly notes, might become something of a habit for him. Draco’s look of childish glee reminds him of Ron’s wide-eyed awe as he bought sweets, far more than even two boys exploiting the freedom of no adults to chastise them should have been able to eat. But eat it they did, perhaps out of pure stubbornness in the end.

It’s a fond memory, Harry intoxicated with magic and the laughter of his new friend, conspiratorial glances shared over chocolate frogs and the very first beginnings of what would be a years long cataloguing of the correlation between colour and taste of Bertie Bott’s.

Harry has the strong suspicion that, despite of how many pastries and biscuits and croissants he bought that pride themselves on their chocolate contents, Draco and him won’t look anywhere close to the chocolate smudged boys Ron and him had turned into. Draco is too regal, too dignified to give into silly temptation like that, no matter how soft he is in the mornings. Shame, Harry thinks Draco would might look quite fetching, dark chocolate dripped onto him and —

“I made you coffee, by the way. I don’t think you like tea?” Draco doesn’t look up from the bag, still unpacking evermore of the breakfast Harry hunted.

On second thought, perhaps his escapade with Ron was meant more as a lesson, what _not_ to do. Well, Draco is delighted and Harry sincerely hopes they are too mature to eat just because it’s there and they don't want to admit they are full, so whether a lesson or not, Harry is satisfied with his idea.

As for the coffee, Harry likes tea just fine. Not in the early mornings, though, when he depends on the caffeine coffee seems to administer faster than tea. Frankly, Harry is surprised Draco picked up on that. He still doesn’t care about _how_ Harry takes his coffee (does he know there are other ways than dark and bitter? Surely he must!), the mug once again filled to the brim with coffee barely drinkable.

One would think Harry has grown used to it by now, the uncompromising swill the only thing keeping him awake during Draco’s crazy furniture migration. In reality, all Harry learnt is how to gulp down as much as possible of it, thanking the scorching heat for burning away his ability to taste anything, and discreetly sneak off to add milk and sugar.

Sneaking off, it turns out, is easier when Draco is Malfoy and when he is preoccupied with checking furniture for damage. Harry would have thought baked goods more effective in distracting him — Draco is infamous for his sweet tooth after all — but Draco looks up the moment Harry starts adding milk. Draco looks up, sees Harry guiltily hold the milk, and his face falls.

“Did I do it wrong?” Draco looks devastated by that realisation (quite exaggerated, the coffee wasn’t _that_ bad) and Harry immediately feels bad. There is no way around it, though, he _did_ do it wrong.

“Well, yeah, but —” Draco’s face falls even more, impossibly so.

It’s kind of touching, in a terribly selfish way, to see him care so much about Harry’s comfort. Then Draco’s face contorts into anger, and the warm feeling disappears.

“That’s because it’s impossible to make! There is nothing conclusive on any of the measurements and how long is it supposed to boil for anyway? There is nothing precise about coffee, just guess work and _personal preference_ —” Draco is gesticulating widely, glaring at the coffeemaker as if it personally betrayed him. Which is ridiculous, Harry doesn’t think Draco has been burned even once by the thing, while Harry seriously contemplated getting all his coffee from overpriced coffee-shops when Grimmauld proved to be without mercy, going so far as to deny him his caffeine without paying for it with burned fingers. Worth it, sure, but not ideal.

Draco is still talking, narrating the meticulous and not actually that complicated process of preparing coffee, complaining about virtually everything. It should not be endearing. It shouldn’t be and Harry valiantly tries to remain stoic, but soon he finds himself smiling, caught up in Draco’s little frown and the dramatic distaste he holds for everything even vaguely connected to coffee. How far would Draco go, Harry wonders, how long would he rant for and what else would fall under his wrath-covered embarrassment?

“Do you want me to teach you?” Harry asks, because he might be intensely curious to see what kind of connections Draco would build before running out of steam, but he also would like to avoid more bad coffee.

Draco stills, hands frozen in their where he had — what had he been doing? Harry has no idea, isn’t sure if Draco himself quite knows. He looks a bit perplexed, mostly at Harry’s offer, and if you told him right now that Draco never before saw a kitchen, Harry would believe it. For a moment, he doesn't look like he belongs here at all, like a creature ripped from a life that has nothing at all to do with Harry, somewhere brighter and easier, where innocent questions about coffee can remain banter in the kitchen and not threaten to topple over a fragile bond that only started to bloom in the last 12 hours.

For one moment, Harry realises how unlikely all of this is, that Draco — proud and obstinate pure-blood heir that he is, which he used to shoved down everyone throat — should sneer at him and tell him that he has no desire to learn about Muggle contraptions, that even if he _had_ he wouldn’t need Harry’s help for it.

“I’d like that.” Draco smiles at him, and Harry is gone. He has no idea how it happened, or when, but Harry is completely and irrevocably gone on Draco Malfoy.

The process of teaching Draco how to work the coffeemaker is somewhat hazy, Harry’s hands going through the motions without his brain giving them any directions, too focused on how close Draco is standing, how he has to stand on his tiptoes to see over Harry's shoulder and the little squeak he makes when Harry decides that this is ridiculous and pulls him in front of himself.

There is also some rational part of his mind that points out that they could just as easily stand _next to each other_ , no need for that much contact between them, but that part always has the most boring ideas and Harry doesn’t feel guilty resolutely ignoring it. It’s much more thrilling to focus on Draco, the inquisitive little hums, the way he watches Harry’s hands intently to remember the exact details of the high art that is coffee brewing.

Starting the coffee doesn’t usually take all that long. Harry stretched out the process as much as possible, but in the end they sit civilised at the table, politely passing the jam and croissants, shuffling aside the milk a bit to see each other better and trying to get comfortable in the chairs that refuse to accommodate for the presence of feet or cross-legged sitting.

“What did you say about the kitchen, when are you going to refurnish it?” Harry asks, glaring at his uncooperative chair.

The renovations of Grimmauld are coming along well, Draco reassured him, but as far as Harry can see they are still living with nothing but the bare essentials, uncomfortable and sworn to be only temporary. For some inane reason, Draco insisted on not having any real furniture in the house during the process, and the first rooms he made livable again are the guest rooms and the countless parlours Harry didn’t even know about. Magic space, that’s what it must be, it’s ineffable. Or Grimmauld deeming him too plebeian to lay his eyes on the noble splendour.

(That’s at least not as bad an insult as being too unimportant, Draco informed Harry in a haughty tone when he interrupted Harry’s rant about Grimmaulds childish pouting. Being unimportant, so it seems, is worse because at least plebeian means you are enough of a person to _matter_ and be assigned a title, unfavourable as it might be. Strangely enough, Harry didn’t feel better after Draco's words of dubious comfort.)

“Right after the green parlour.” Draco doesn’t even need to _think_ about the renovation order to answer. He has been living and breathing these plans since they got married (maybe before that already, he had the first plans suspiciously fast) and Harry has barely seen him do anything else when left to his own devices. Draco knows the renovations inside and out, could recite them in his sleep and, apparently, shoot precise time estimations while dunking a croissant into blackberry jam.

Seriously, it’s almost scary how competent he is. There are general plans and specific plans for each room, a binder on the history of the place and how decorations were back then and a completely different binder of what Harry guesses is Malfoy Manor and wherever Draco’s mother grew up. They are analysed and commented and connected to detailed information about that architectural style and the decor, all of it colour coded for how much his mother appreciates it. The Binder of Aspirations and Inspirations is something Harry has only ever seen from the outside, but he reckons it’s heavy enough to commit a murder with. Harry would rather not know the well-structured madness that awaits him inside.

As well prepared as Draco is, Harry sees some vital flaws in his schedule.

“So what does that mean, when are we getting to the rooms we actually live in?” Harry has been wanting to ask that since about 5 rooms now. He is getting tired of living like this, with barely more than they had when they were camping through the woods in constant fear for their lives.

Well, not all that constant. Harry remembers fear, sure, exhaustion and frustration and being much more irritable, but a lot of that was the locket poisoning their minds. Besides, there was also dancing, laughter where even a small smile had become something of a rarity. There was a _connection,_ one that Harry might just miss in these days of boring safety.

“Do you think we should go camping?” Harry blurts out. Draco looks up at him in bewilderment.

Right, that’s a no then.

“Do I _look_ like the sort to go _camping_ , Potter?” Draco does indeed not look like the sort, no.

Harry can barely imagine Draco somewhere outside wilder than a decadent garden, the lawn meticulously watered and the pristine exterior kept up by millions of unseen hands dedicated to preserving a fantasy. Even there, Draco would sit in a gazebo, shielded from the sun and watching tamed nature through the alluded walls. He wouldn’t make it a day out there, not with the most fancy tent magic can draw up. He would mope and complain and be altogether miserable, worried and fretting about noises that are perfectly natural.

Maybe that is exactly why Harry should take him camping, show him what he is missing out on and how to find beauty in things he wasn’t taught from childhood to love and need.

Harry isn’t foolish enough to voice any of this. Instead, he vaguely hums, grins to make Draco frown, and sips his coffee.

“Besides, the house isn’t in such a state that a stint in some shoddy tent would be preferable. We’ll be done soon enough, there is no need to flee.” Draco goes back to his own food, the conversation declared ended. Harry won’t let him get out of this quite so easily, he really is sick of their living situation.

“How about we do the living room next?” That is the one Harry needs the most and if he can get only one room out of Draco, he wants this one.

Movie nights at Seamus and Dean’s have become the new standard, although nothing about their flat improved. It’s getting more and more unbearable, the tiny space and the foul food; with all his friends teasing him about Draco. There is nothing but the movies still compelling him to go every time, and you know times are dire when movie nights are actually about the movie shown. Some of his fondest memories of this tradition doesn't involve the TV at all, the movie not even started.

Draco, unaware of the doom quickly approaching to announce the end of movie nights, heaves a long suffering sigh.

“I told you before —” Harry interrupts him, because Draco _did_ tell him before. Something about _traditions_ and _beliefs_ (Harry would have called it superstition, but Draco talked right over his commentary, too convinced to listen to anyone else) and a whole lot of other nonsense that amounts to not one reason for this insanity, except that that is how it’s always been done. Never a good argument, but if it’s the only argument you have it’s a sure sign things need to change.

“And I told _you_ that that is stupid and that we should start with the rooms we life in, as, say, the _living_ room.” Pretty convincing point, right? Not for Draco though. No, for Draco things don’t necessarily need to make sense if they are suitably dramatic to make up for the lack of logic.

“It’s _tradition_ , I don’t know what you don’t understand about that!” They have had this argument for a long time now, not in such explicit words but steadily building up with every useless room Harry only saw when dragging furniture in, never before and never after.

“Just because it’s old doesn’t mean it’s good! What do you think is going to happen if you don’t do everything exactly the way your ancestors did it, will they pout at you from their dusty portraits? Will they scream and yell because they are jealous and bitter that you are alive while they are dead, that you get to live and dream and do things differently than they did, do them better and they can just watch?” It’s infuriating, to see Draco live under the shadow of bitter portraits for no other reason than fictional values and morals.

Harry doesn’t know what it would be like, if he had a portrait of his family, of his parents. He would like to say that he wouldn’t comprise who he is, that he wouldn’t abandon all logic to tradition, but he knows that isn’t true. If Harry had a portrait of his parents he would do whatever it took to make them proud.

Maybe it isn’t fair to demand this of Draco, to project Harry’s own mess of feelings and suspicions onto him. Especially since it’s mostly the renovating, it’s not like Draco spends half his time pining after things he doesn’t have the guts to go after with their disapproving eyes on him. Still, it _bothers_ Harry.

“Didn’t know _you_ were an expert on family, Potter. What makes you think you have any idea what you are talking about?” Draco always does this, goes for Harry's parents when he is hurt and wants Harry to hurt, too. It’s not a difficult pattern to spot and yet it took Harry marrying the git to see it.

In rare instance of mercy, being aware actually does make it easier to handle. Usually knowing you are being baited doesn't help at all.

Harry didn't expect that, because his life _never_ worked this way, but he’ll gladly take it. It means he can see Draco’s words for what they are: a desperate attempt at a distraction, anything to get the attention off the nerve Harry hit. And because Harry realised they are friends, and as such you sometimes have to make difficult decisions to help their struggle, Harry doesn’t allow himself to be swayed. Draco won’t like hearing it, but he needs to nonetheless, and hopefully he can take the words as what they are intended to be and put them to use.

“Family is more than blood. I know that because I do have one, I _chose_ one. Family isn’t supposed to pull you down and make you feel bad about yourself, especially not for being who you are. They are supposed to love and support you and gather enough embarrassing stories about you that you have to seriously question why you love these people. Of course it’s too late by then because you already do and there is no way out except to collect stories of your own and force them to do the dishes — this is getting away from me here a bit. The point is, family doesn’t have to mean blood, and if your blood is a bunch of frowning old men who are displeased with everything you do and make sure you never forget it … honestly Draco, are those people you want to please?”

Draco stares at Harry as if he grew a second head, bewildered and a little bit intrigued, keeping his distance just to be safe. Harry understands, he didn't mean to get preaching, seriously, but family is a sensitive topic for him. Draco knows that, it's the whole reason he brought it up, so really, he only has himself to blame himself for this one.

“Would you excuse me,” Draco says, the words phrased like a question but none of it actually up to debate. He is already getting up, leaving the table. Harry messed up.

Draco walks as fast as possible without making it apparent he is fleeing, posture rigid in that way that means he is too aware of it, consciously keeping his spine straight and his shoulders squared, his head held high, his steps long and even, every movement he makes focused on getting him further away from Harry.

Unfortunately for Draco, Harry’s legs are longer and he is well practised in hunting down people. He won’t let Draco run away, not when he they were on the brink of getting somewhere.

Granted, Draco doesn't look like a man on the brink of an epiphany that will improve his life. No, Draco looks like a man struggling in despair to hold all the pieces together before he shatters. Sometimes, though, that is exactly what needs to happen, something needs to break to be put back together better, stronger.

Harry has no idea where they are going, isn’t even sure where they are at all anymore, but that hardly matters. Harry follows Draco. Left, right, down flights of stairs and then right again — just as Harry starts to wonder if Draco is leading him around in hopes of getting rid of him, always avoiding his real destination to keep it secret, Draco enters a room.

He enters the room so suddenly Harry walks on for a few steps before his brain catches up with what happened.

Well, this is embarrassing. Harry walks backwards and hopes Draco left the door open, because his brain is still baffled at his disappearance and, frankly, Harry isn’t quite certain for how long he walked before he realised, or into which side of the corridor Draco slipped away.

Harry is lucky, Draco indeed left the door open. The picture that presents itself to Harry, though, well, Harry might have done something wrong in the very simple task of retracing his path and landed in an alternate reality of some sort. That’s the only explanation Harry can come up with, thoughts stuttering to a halt, hung up on the ferret cradled against Draco’s chest, his face hidden in the fur.

Slowly, carefully, Harry begins to analyse the situation.

Draco sits on the floor, cross-legged and hunched over the ferret held in his arms. There is another ferret pacing on his legs (Harry is reminded of a guard dog, or perhaps a tiger, patrolling their territory) nudging Draco’s sides and knees and rubbing its little head in what appears to be comfort. The third ferret sits in front of their odd arrangement, glaring at Harry as it considers him. Harry stands up straighter on instinct, then immediately feels ridiculous for trying to please a _ferret_. The ferret kind of nods, he supposes, leaves off its vigil, and begins to draw a circle around Draco, pressing so close Draco must feel its presence going round and around.

Harry is overcome by the urge to take a picture. No one is going to believe this — _Harry_ doesn’t believe it. He didn’t think Draco did anything more than tolerate the ferrets with a morose sneer. Teasing him about animals that he seems intent on ignoring hadn’t been particular fun, and Harry had given up on that quickly, reassuring himself and Ron that Draco was irked on the inside. That isn't half as fun, but what can you do.

Evidently, that was not the case. Draco is a lot closer to the ferrets than Harry expected, both physically and emotionally , seeking comfort from them. What’s even more miraculous: it seems to work.

“I love my parents. You probably can’t understand, they don’t look like good parents from the outside, but I really do.” Draco laughs, something bitter and sharp that causes every ferret to press closer to him and Harry, weirdly, to want to reach out and put a hand on his head, to shelter him. “Parents don’t have to be good with their responsibility for you to love them. Love is strange like that, inconvenient.”

Harry has no idea what to say to that, neither about his own parents nor about parents in general and certainly not about Draco’s parents. Then Draco looks up at him and Harry doesn’t think he could talk if he wanted to. There is something dark lurking in his eyes, shadows pooling, making his skin pale and eyes impossibly huge.

“Won’t you sit down?” It’s a kindly wrapped order, appearing like a suggestion and phrased like a question. Harry sits down.

“I love my parents and I do want them to be proud, you are right. I don’t know how to achieve that. It used to be easy, just do as you are told and don’t stumble. Get the best marks and have the right friends, be charming and cunning and always tip the scales in your favour. I knew exactly who they wanted me to be, and I was good at it. Then came the war, and everything changed.” Draco pets the ferrets curled up all over him absent-minded, his eyes far away. Harry knows exactly how it feels to be haunted like that.

“My father changed first, became secretive and withdrawn, brooding for hours in front of the fire and going on ever longer walks. I don’t know for sure what occupied his thoughts, if he was planning a war or seeking a way out for all of us. I don’t think I want to know. Either way, he fell in His favour, so all of us did. I watched my father — proud and imposing and confident, the man I always admired and yearned approval from, who could do absolutely anything once he set his mind to it — dwindle into an unkempt husk that I barely recognised, bowing his head and kissing dirty feet.” Harry remembers that, remembers feeling gratified at seeing the arrogant twat fall so far from grace. He thought it was well-deserved and overdue, that finally Lucius' outside matched his insides. Hearing Draco talk about him like that, talk about his _father_ , well, Harry feels like an arse.

Harry feels even worse when he remembers how he made fun of him, how he rubbed salt in the wounds to get a rise out of Draco when his father was send to Azkaban. Sure, he never liked Lucius and he had plenty of justified reasons for that, but looking back on it now Harry wishes he had stopped a moment to _think_. It wouldn’t have led anywhere, of course, what with their feud and all, but still. Things could have been so different.

“I resented him for that. You see, things got really bad really quick. Soon our home was invested with them, with their dirt and their cruel laughter, with pained screams and compulsory attendance at _meetings_. My father did nothing to stop them, nothing against leering looks and unsavoury comments. He did nothing about _him_ , nothing about the task I was assigned, nothing about anything. I was scared, all the time, with every breath I took. I have never been so relieved to leave for Hogwarts, but even that was tainted.”

Draco talks as though he’s in a trance, no inflection or emotions in his voice. It’s chilling and not at all what Harry was expecting.

It would be easier if Draco were to show any signs of life besides talking in that monotone, dispassionate voice. But there is nothing. Draco sits rigid, as if pulled up by a string, his hands moving on autopilot, no changes in speed or form to accommodate for the ferret twisting and wriggling under it, and he stares blankly right through.

Harry can’t pinpoint when this happened, when Draco shut himself off so completely, lost in his past. He started out normal; subdued sure, but that isn’t unusual considering the traumatic nature of his tale. But somehow, the more Draco talked, the more he left.

“My father let me down, I thought back then. Now I think I just wasn’t prepared for the truth, to realise that he is only human. Fallible. Fragile.” Draco still speaks in that horribly hallow tone, as if the whole thing doesn’t concern him at all, grown numb to his pain.

Harry is suddenly hit with the image of Draco in his room at the manor, sitting just like that on the floor, utterly alone without anyone around for him to pat or listen to him. His parents would have been too warped up in their own struggles to be there, his friends hopefully a safe distance away and anyone else in the house better to remain on the other side of the door. Harry remembers all too well how it feels to be grateful for a flimsy door separating yourself from the rest of the world. It’s incredibly lonely.

Harry wants to reach out, reassure them both that they aren’t locked in their rooms anymore, that they aren’t alone, but he doesn't quite dare. He doesn’t know how far gone Draco is, and there is stark difference between stroking a pet and suddenly being touched yourself. Harry doesn’t want to startle him, doesn’t want to make it worse. So he keeps his hands at his sides, watching Draco gaze into the distance and wishing he would wake up.

“My mother is a different story. She did what she could — and that is quite a lot, you might not see it by looking at her, but that only makes her more dangerous — but in the end even she couldn’t get us out, not without giving up our home and not without tremendous risks. Still, I shudder to think where we might be without her.

“It took its toll though, on her and all of us. Now I don’t know who I need to be. My father has taken to gardening, which, trust me, is far more disconcerting in person than words. I don’t think he cares anymore if I go into politics or become an underpaid teacher, as long as I drop by for tea and to admire his Geraniums. He is a different man these days, and I don’t think I know that man. Mother acts like nothing is changed, not in the essentials. And who knows, perhaps she is right. She tends to be. But she always wanted me to be _happy_ , to be content with the life I live. That’s as vague as instructions get, and I never figured out how to reach that.” Draco trails off, the void in him breaking Harry’s heart.

He knows what Draco means, though. Harry never had particularly great aspirations in life. Survive living with the Dursley’s and move out as soon as possible, into a house of his own. Save the world from the dangerous maniac because the prophecy said so. Save the world because that means saving people. He didn’t have plans of being happy, of what to do after the world is saved and his duty done. What else is there left to do?

“So yes, Harry, I do cling to old family traditions that are seriously daft.” Harry startles at being addressed by name, Draco’s eyes fixated on him now and piercing him with cold grey and an underlying steel Harry saw only glimpses of before. “I have nothing else guiding me anymore, because my father is a _gardener_ and my mother smiles at everything and anything I tell her about my life. Last week I told her I planned to divorce you and run away with the circus because I had fallen madly in love with the pantomime clown and one of the acrobats, who invited me to join in their relationship. Do you want to know what her biggest concern was? That we find our footing quickly because relationships are difficult enough with two people involved and they certainly don’t get easier with three.”

Draco doesn’t look at him anymore, his eyes have once again taken on that hazy quality, but Harry feels rattled nonetheless. Listening to Draco’s tale without any _Draco_ in it, Harry almost forgot that telling him was a deliberate choice, that the things Draco spoke of _happened_ to him, to the body sitting here covered in ferrets. Now though, now Harry is acutely aware. Draco, who makes horrible coffee and obsesses over his plans, who wrinkles his nose at the books Harry reads and tries so hard not to pull a grimace at his cooking, who gives astonishingly good hugs and whose hair is unfairly shiny, Draco is haunted by the war the same way Harry is.

Harry didn’t know. And how could he have? They barely talk about the war, about Hogwarts, about their families. It’s not that they don’t talk at all, they do that a lot and lately it can even be called talking and not just a forcefully polite arguing, but they don’t talk about the heavy stuff. They didn’t _decide_ not to talk about it either, no agreement to let the past be the past and to never mention it again, it just never came up. No surprise there, Harry used to devote huge efforts to Not Thinking about any of it, to not dwell on it and move on with his happy ending already. Only it wasn’t all that happy, but Harry learnt how to sell the story.

Draco, it seems, is an accomplished storyteller, too.

It shouldn’t, but the knowledges comes as something of a revelation. Harry didn’t expect any of that when Draco stormed off, especially not when he brought up renovating the living room next. Knowing Draco is so insistent on those traditions because he doesn’t know how to exist outside of them, well, Harry feels like this is the moment where he should say something. Something comforting and brave, something that will inspire Draco and show him that there are other ways to live, that he can find his way off the paths of inane tradition, that there are other well-trodden paths and even more unexplored vastness than he can imagine.

“You planned to divorce me and elope with the circus?” Harry blurts out, which expresses exactly nothing of what Draco probably needs to hear right now. Instead Harry managed to focus on the least important detail, on the part explicitly mentioning him and makes Draco’s entire confession about that. This is why Harry shouldn’t be allowed emotional talks — he is no good with them.

Draco stares at him, eyes aware and burning, and he stopped patting the ferret. Harry screwed up, extremely so. Draco will eviscerate him for that. He is clearly not emotionally stable after this — and really, who would be? — so Harry has to pay the price for his carelessness.

Draco laughs.

It’s Harry’s turn to stare, completely befuddled and the situation not getting any clearer as Draco just keeps on laughing, shaking hard enough to scare the ferrets away, hurrying to hide behind Harry. That will do them little good, as Harry can already feel similar laughter bubbling up in him.

They must look insane, sitting on the floor and laughing with tears in their eyes, but Grimmauld doesn’t seem to mind and, honestly, Harry doesn’t know what it would have to do to break the moment. Laughter is a powerful ally.


	13. Chapter 13

By all rights, breakfast should have been awkward. And Draco should know, he compiled a list.

First, they spent the night together.

It sounds incredibly sordid, even knowing that nothing untoward happened. Whatever untoward means in this case, they _are_ married after all. Appropriate or not, Draco is grateful it didn’t happen.

He didn’t believe Harry at first when he claimed that he just came to sleep, some feeble excuse about the rest of the house being too cold — it all seemed rather improbable.

Improbable is what Harry does, though, and there wasn’t any existential need for Draco to frantically escape the room as he did. Well, no _rational_ need,at least. Draco sought to keep his room … safe, he supposes? Safe from wandering hands and mouths pressed everywhere, safe of the horribly confusing reactions between mind and body and the overbearing shame. So, because Draco has always been a coward, he ran away. Which didn’t help because Harry was right, Grimmauld had turned into an ice box with neither mercy nor compassion. Draco had to return and admit defeat sooner than would have been dignified.

Once Draco realised Harry wasn’t going to change his mind and accost him, things almost got pleasant. Perhaps pleasant isn’t the right word — surreal? Is there a good word to describe the staggering leap in intimacy they did? Something to catch the embarrassment of spilling his ridiculous fears of being rejected, the elation of Harry calling him by his first name that shouldn’t feel as gratifying as it does, the blossoming warmth where before Draco could convince himself there was nothing but the cold agreements of deals and contracts. There is no such word Draco can think of, nothing he ever experienced before, but he thinks he likes it.

Second, the name thing.

Sure, first names are wonderful in the cover of the dark, but daylight has a way of exposing flaws and downsides with uncompromising honesty. Fantasies rarely live long in the day, no matter how far they reach in the night, and Draco was sure it would be the exact same with any progress they might have made in that nebulous space.

The simple fact of the matter is, that they _should not get along_. They have a long history of not getting along so spectacularly that they fancied themselves mortal enemies (maybe that was more Draco, Harry had an actual destined nemesis after all, whereas Draco always relished in dramatics to make the dullness of life more bearable) and Draco is pretty sure they tried to kill each other those first weeks after moving in together. Nothing was ever confirmed or admitted, and Draco wasn't clear enough on his own ambitions to recall them with any certainty, but he is sure no one would have shed a tear at a funeral.

Draco might have forgiven Harry for the ferrets (don't tell him) but it took a lot of coaxing from Pansy to get here. Every time Draco thought the ferrets weren't too bad, that he survived the trauma of 4th year well enough, he will feel something claw up his leg, hear the ominous rustle, and after overcoming the inevitably following panic resolve to never forgive Harry for the first ferret.

In some ways, Draco hasn't, holding on to that grudge with all his might. Insurance, for when things go wrong as they always do, eventually.

Third, Draco's break down.

That one was seriously embarrassing; utterly out of the blue, too. Draco honestly didn’t realise he was still this torn up over his family, he thought he managed quite well to push everything under. Apparently the only thing Draco succeeded in was in deluding himself.

He knew of course that he was being unreasonable, starting with the least used rooms is a questionable method not only because it means living on basically nothing until almost the end of the renovations, but it also leads to things being rushed and decisions made under pressure — it’s inconvenient all around.

The daft structure wasn't helped by Draco's hope of it providing a connection, however flimsy, to his parents, or rather, the people who _used_ to be parents. Draco isn’t sure where they stand right now. But he loves them all the same, so it doesn’t matter.

No, the only thing Draco didn’t admit to himself was how close he was to breaking over it and how little it would take to get him there. Harry, as ever, succeeded in finding his weaknesses.

After Draco ran away ( _again_ , he is developing an unfortunate habit) and told Harry everything he never wanted to give voice to, they are back here, sitting at the table heavily laden with the exploits from Harry’s bakery-run. Neither of them is saying anything into the growing silence and things are surprisingly comfortable. Domestic, one might say, as if they do this every day and have been for years now, with several more years to come. All that is missing to complete the stereotypical breakfast scene is a newspaper they could squabble over.

(Harry would likely try to get the sports section, leaving Draco to dry economics, infuriating politics and dull gossip on all the wrong people. Not if Draco is faster than him, then he will get the only _interesting_ bit.)

Draco would love to give into the temptation and act like nothing is wrong, like this is how they spend their mornings and no one had been crying today, but he owes Harry better than that. Harry was kind enough not to point out the tears, not to comment on the ferrets piled onto him despite Draco’s professed aversion to them — he even made Draco laugh after patiently listening to his sob story. Harry deserves more than to have the whole thing swept under the carpet and forgot, although he would let Draco get away with it. Perhaps especially _because_ he would let him get away with it.

“I would appreciate your opinion on the couch I picked for the living room. I have concerns about your menagerie of friends fitting.” Draco tries hard to give the offer as unstudied an air as possible, to pretend his heart isn’t shaking in his chest at the possibility of Harry exploiting this, demanding more than Draco can give at the moment and crowing in victory when he takes it from him anyway.

Harry would be capable of that, they both know it, more than capable. He has a talent for manipulating Draco into anything, similar to Pansy who doesn’t acknowledge that, occasionally, Draco does indeed know what is good for him and can make his own choices. But Pansy’s manipulation don’t leave a sour taste in his mouth, and he never has the feeling of losing to Pansy when she makes him do something. It’s different with Harry.

Perhaps there isn’t enough friendship to serve as a solid foundation of love and concern required to make this sort of influence, in the very least understandable. Perhaps Draco is insecure and trying to impress Harry while he considers Pansy his sister in all but blood, which means she is intimately familiar with all Draco is, insecurities and impressive abilities included. Perhaps there is nothing more to it than Harry being _Harry_ and there already being enough bad blood between them to make Draco suspicious of anything.

Whatever the reason, Draco couldn’t stand Harry taking anything more than the gratitude and couch he offered. It’s a concession, a break in the tradition Draco avidly followed, despite how it kept them living in what feels like servants quarters only less personalised. Draco has had enough of that. If he has Harry to catch him where the tradition ends, Draco is willing to risk letting go.

The symbolism of his offer is not something Draco plans on sharing. Symbolism, if done well, doesn’t need to be explained. If Harry can’t figure it out on his own, perhaps Draco overestimated him. That was never one of his problem though. If anything, Draco _underestimated_ him.

Harry grins at him, much broader than Draco thought him capable so early in the morning. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Right, they will start on the living room next. That is fine. It’s good, even. Draco is sorely missing some bookshelves.

“On the first movie night I’ll hold here, I want you to join us.” Harry nods in decision, not even _asking_ if perhaps Draco has plans. Draco doesn’t, he generally dedicates that time to reading, but Harry could at least should have asked! It’s the polite thing to do, and it would have given Draco the chance to come up with an excuse. As it stands, the topic is long closed before Draco has recovered from the shock of being invited.

Harry had mentioned before that his friends wanted to meet Draco, so the concept — no less ridiculous now then it was then — is not new. Draco should have been prepared for this coming up again. Maybe he could have averted his fate if he had seen sooner where Harry’s thoughts were headed, could have cut the idea off before it fully formed.

This is why Draco should have stayed with tradition and long dead bores. They don’t want to watch movies with him, don’t want to introduce him to a gaggle of loud people who have every reason to hate him, and they certainly don’t smile at him over their coffee and make him feel like all of this might not be too bad.

Well, can’t be helped now. Draco offered a finger out of his bubble of safety and Harry grabbed his whole hand and pulled him down. There is no escape.

Draco definitely needs Pansy there. She is the best moral support he has among his friends, disheartening as the thought is. Theo would straight up refuse, Draco got himself into this mess and he might not have the backbone to say no to Harry’s green eyes, but Theo certainly can. Blaise would be charming and brilliant and flirt with everyone and utterly humiliate Draco, giving them all blackmail material enough to justify a murder, of both Blaise and them. He’d probably think it _hilarious._

That leaves only Pansy, who would limit her flirting to Granger and Weasley. Maybe Draco could even pass that off as the date he promised her. Harry would be too busy scowling at them to notice Draco not interacting with anyone else and, if worst comes to worst, Draco would trust Pansy with his life even while she is drunk on love. She might not be perfect for the mission, but she is all Draco has.

He decides against informing Harry of his plan. He is unlikely to say no — he does love playing host — but Draco deems it best not to give him the chance in the first place. Besides, he is engrossed in sketching his own plans on how the living room ought to look, and Draco might not be able to see them properly from where he is sitting, but the likelihood of his ideas being in any way acceptable is rather low. That is more important than discussing exactly how many people will watch the movies. (Or just one movie perhaps? How long are these things anyway?)

“Harry, please tell me you are not actually drawing _two_ couches on that napkin.” Harry, who very much _is_ planning the room with two couches, moves to hide the sketch under the table, effectively confirming Draco’s fears. “Why do you suffer the delusion we would have two couches?”

Pansy would always tell him that, sometimes, Draco sounds exactly like his father. It used to make him proud, back when they were all incredibly young, then it made him angry and then sad and now — now he doesn’t know anymore, but this is the first time Draco heard it himself. He never did before, neither in his choice of words nor in his inflection, but now he has the insipid idea that if he were to turn around, he would realise it was his father who spoke the words. Impossible as it is, that version of him is long dead, Draco his last legacy.

Draco doesn't know how he feels about that.

It doesn’t matter how he feels though, because it prompts an answer out of Harry.

“Well, I already have a couch — one I won’t give up under the thread of disembowelment so don’t even try — and I assume you have something fancy that fits perfectly with the curtains in one of the idle guest rooms picked out already? Which is good, we are going to need the extra space. I assume someone will end up on the floor anyway, but that can’t be helped. We then need to arrange the couches so you can see the TV from everywhere in the room, and no second row because you don’t want to see the squabble _that_ would provoke. Here is where the table would be, because —” Harry goes on, about the kitchen and Finnegan being a fire hazard and everyone agreeing to risk warm food anyway ever now and again and how the table is crucial because that is where the food goes and Draco knows, without a doubt, that he will give Harry whatever he wants.

It’s the way he talks about his friends, fondly exasperated and openly affectionate even while he explains how they are going to have to spend a fortune on food because they are all cadgers and splurge on any free food they come across. It reminds Draco of his own friends and the atmosphere of friendly insults, a fierce loyalty underlying everything and never once questioned though it’s seldom acknowledged.

Draco often hears loyalty linked to Gryffindor, mostly to praise foolhardy and excuse blind recklessness, but he never quite saw it. It’s selfishness, he thought, a desire to prove themselves righteous and good and brave that makes anyone claiming loyalty act the way they do. Loyal to what, even? They never specified. But here, now, in Harry, Draco sees it. _Slytherin_ loyalty, to friends and traditions, loyalty in the face of insurmountable odds, loyalty that means you would sooner burn down the world than turn your back on your people. _That_ is loyalty, even if everyone is awfully quick to dismiss it as malice and schemes.

What they don’t understand is the very simple divide between those you care about and those you couldn’t care less about. Friends and others. It’s a little more complicated than that, of course, nothing is ever quite that simple, but that is the basic principle confusing many a poor soul who never tried to understand in the first place.

Harry sorts his world similarly, though Draco never realised it before. It’s the hero complex mixed in, the burden of surviving his parents and his godfather and his mentor, of surviving the curse that killed everyone else unlucky enough to have it directed at them. Harry might not _care_ exactly, but he does feel responsible, guilty. So Harry fought, he saved the world and if Draco were to be objective, he tried hard to die in the process. He didn’t, and now here he is, no obligations left binding him to the people he saved and nothing but habit and their interest keeping him in the news. Harry’s loyalty is to his friends; Draco has no doubt that should he have to make a choice between one of them and the world, he would choose them.

“None of this explains why we don’t do the reasonable thing and get rid of the monstrosity of a couch we currently have and get a single big one with space for everyone. It’s a far more elegant solution than piecing together couches and armchairs and soft carpets until everyone has some place to sit.” Draco interrupts Harry’s detailed report on one of their many, _many_ rituals concerning movie night, he needs to stomp out this idea of two couches; absolutely ridiculous.

Harry doesn’t think it ridiculous, and he looks highly offended at the mere mention of getting rid of the ratty old couch. Draco sighs. He knew this would happen, this happened before and he knew it would happen again. He isn’t prepared for it _now_ , but he also can’t profess complete ignorance on Harry’s sensitivity concerning that couch. Harry fought tooth and nail to keep it when Draco went through the house, marking what would need to go and what could stay, either until their new furniture arrived or permanently. They finally agreed to mark the couch to be kept temporarily, until they could renegotiate.

Draco didn't plan on renegotiating. It’s like this: the couch is ugly and lumpy and so obviously old and worn that Draco shudders to think what kind of things happened on there and he wants it out of his house. Simple as that. Only that Harry, sentimental fool, had to go and get _attached_ to the thing. He feels strong sitting on it, Draco knows without Harry admitting to it, like a conqueror, the same triumph echoing through him that they celebrated when they got Grimmauld to allow the couch in. And Draco understands that, he _does_ , but Harry did the conquering now! The house is theirs, treating Harry the same as Draco, as they have established — doesn’t the conqueror ever grow tired of the battlefield?

“As if you keep things only because it’s the _reasonable_ thing to do,” Harry scoffs, feeling smug and blissfully unaware of how accurate his sarcasm is.

“As a matter of fact, I do keep things only when it makes sense to do so.” Draco is rather proud of that ability, to let go of things he no longer needs or uses. Blaise says that is to balance out the way he clings to his feelings, every flatter and every grudge, but Blaise isn’t here so Harry will never know.

“Ha! See, it does make sense to keep the couch! We need somewhere to sit, Draco, keeping it is stuffed so full of sense it’s close to bursting.” Harry’s hands mimic what Draco assumes to be an explosion, the wide grin on his face at odds with the tragedy he is acting out. It’s all very endearing and distracting from the argument they are having. Draco scowls at him and his stupid nonsense point.

He scowls some more when Harry’s enthusiasm doesn't dim at all.

“No, it makes sense to acquire _a_ couch. More sense than keeping the one we have at the moment, because it would be bigger, cleaner and more comfortable. Surely you agree that that is also in _your_ best interest; unless you invite your friends over with the intention of slowly poisoning them via the grime they are exposed to?” Draco raises an eyebrow at Harry, because that has the tendency to accelerate things as it infuriates or distracts Harry, and Draco wants to be done with this conversation.

He doesn’t know what there is to explain — the couch is obviously a health and safety hazard and the fact that Draco tolerated it in his house for this long would make his father nauseous; it has to go. They went over this when Draco first wanted to wash his hands of it and they went over it when the mood took Harry, lazing on the abominable thing, which he did an improbable amount of time in an effort to prove it vital. It seems now they are discussing it again, and Draco is determined to not postpone it _again_.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Is that what this is about? Do you not want my friends to come over so you plan on buying an aggressively small couch?” Harry looks vaguely insulted, not sure yet if it’s warranted but prepared for it anyway. Draco is mostly confused.

An aggressively small couch? How would that even work? Gryffindors aren’t polite enough to understand the subtle meanings conveyed in decor and furnishing, the implications of a small couch would be completely lost on them. They would only drag in something new, possibly even more hideous. Also, why does Harry think Draco would not simply deny them entry if he didn’t want them here? Didn’t he agree to participate in their next gathering?

“Pardon?” Draco asks, because he lost his train of thought somewhere in Harry’s jumped conclusions and he doesn’t remember what they were talking about before Harry pushed it all down the cliff.

“Well what am I _supposed_ to think? You being sensitive on the friends thing is the only explanation that makes any sense at all, excuse me for asking and trying to make sure you are okay. I refuse to believe that you seriously don’t understand the value of sentiment.”

“Of course I understand the value of sentiment!” The couch, Draco was meant to convince Harry to get rid of the ugly thing, not argue about their respective emotional attachment. He remembers now, carried away by Harry’s passion to argue his absurd point as he is. They really ought to get back to the issue at hand, no matter how much fun discussing principles with Harry can be.

“Prove it then!” Harry stares at him in challenge, which is juvenile and doesn’t have anything to do with what they were talking about and Draco will simply — “That’s what I thought, you can’t prove —”

“My first toy was a stuffed dragon.” The words break out of Draco, completely disregarding all his thoughts about _logic_ and _priorities_ and getting rid of the couch. He didn’t even _mean_ to say anything, but Harry — actually that’s all the explanation Draco has. It’s all Harry’s fault. Harry, who gapes at him in silence, which Draco has to admit, is gratifying.

“She used to be bigger than myself, when I first got her. My mother claims there are pictures —” Draco sees Harry’s face light up at the mention of pictures, and he immediately realises bringing them up was a mistake. Draco hurries along in the vain hope of smothering any flights of fancy before they arise. “Which I don’t believe for a second, because I have never seen them — or any other pictures for that matter!”

It’s too late. Harry is grinning at him, that wide and deceptively friendly grin, something wicked curled around his lips.

Draco never planned to introduce Harry to his parents, mostly because everyone knows everyone already and no one likes the other and things would be unbearably strained. He didn’t actively plan on _not_ introducing them, he just sought to make this situation as smooth as possible. That used to mean keeping his parents informed on a factual level without forcing them to acknowledge the reality of his marriage by inviting them over for tea.

In light of his recent carelessness, it means Draco has to make sure they _never_ , under any circumstances meet. It wouldn’t do to give them any opportunity to talk about Draco (he is reasonably sure neither of them would have many positive things to say) or worse: look at his baby pictures, ever elusive as they might be. He is certain they would be miraculously discovered.

“Right, of course. I think I better ask Narcissa myself, shall I?” Harry asks, still smiling smug and delighted and if it weren't already decided, this is where Draco would resolve to never allow Harry to talk to his mother. That would end even worse for him than if Harry were to talk to Pansy, whose sole purpose seems to be making Draco look like a bumbling fool in front of others.

What’s even more unsettling than the thought of his mother possessing some photo albums to proudly display and humiliate Draco with, is the realisation that apparently Harry and his mother are on a first name basis? And no one saw fit to warn him? Draco shudders to think how they got there, what they could possibly have to discuss that wouldn’t be mortifying to Draco if he knew. There are some things Draco never wants to know (not many, but some).

Better yet: Draco is going to deny all of this. It’s more than likely that Harry is teasing him, that he doesn’t know his mother at all. Yes, that must be it. Harry thinks he is clever and hilarious, congratulating himself to a prank well played. He doesn’t know Draco’s mother and he is not going to see any embarrassing pictures of Draco. Yes, exactly. Draco nods, satisfied with the result he settled on.

Harry smirks and throws all of Draco thought back into disarray. Draco scowls at him, perhaps this time it will yield more pleasing results. Smug bastard. Just because _he_ doesn’t have a family to embarrass him — wait, doesn’t he? There are always the Weasleys, who might not have baby pictures but they must have _stories_. And Draco, because he is well connected, does have an in to their very own family gossip. He should call Pansy, see if she is up for lunch.

Draco will also keep Harry far away from his mother, just to be safe.

“Don’t sulk now, tell me about the dragon!” Harry is practically begging, pouting at Draco with his green eyes wide and imploring. It’s not fair, those eyes, and Draco can feel himself giving in. Well, at least it’s an entertaining tale. Plus, it’s better than contemplating Harry's possible acquaintance with his mother.

“Since you asked so nicely — Capt'n was my first toy, a stuffed dragon as blue as the sky and wings big enough to wrap myself up in. But Capt’n was lonely, and I begged my parents for friends for her. They gently tried to explain that _I_ was supposed to be her friend, but I couldn’t be there for her all the time and I was worried she would get too sad to stay and leave me to live with the other dragons. I wrote some requests. I won’t pretend they were anything clever or refined, barely decipherable I’m afraid, but I was very small and I had only just learnt my letters. I wrote them all though, to every family relation that I could find, no matter how distant, painstakingly by hand because I could hardly ask my parents to make copies of the first one. Then I overfed a few owls with treats to sway them in my favour and deliver the letters when, usually, they were supposed to take orders from my parents only. Thankfully they liked me well enough, the treats helped too, and they spread my desperate desire for companions for my dragon.

“I don’t think I have to tell you what kind of people I am related to, or what kind of grotesque toys I received in response. Looking back, I am honestly surprised how many of them were willing to indulge the pleas of a child. But willing they were and I collected countless toys, some of them even charmed but not a single one cursed, which my parents were very concerned about and led them to test each and every toy several times. They didn’t want to let me keep them at first, after they found out what I had done, but I insisted. Capt’n needed friends, and I was so very pleased with how my scheme turned out, I didn’t even care that they were all creepy. I loved them dearly and so they stayed.

“I think my parents never quite got used to them, though they didn't admit their discomfort again. I wasn't bothered at all, and my friends were all quite jealous; I soon forgot about the unsavoury people who sent them. I dressed them up in elegant robes that I made my parents commission and I held tea parties for them, where they entertained Capt’n and told her all of the latest gossip, talked about books and magic and the first flowers of the year.” Draco doesn’t tell him that they also talked about the great hero Harry Potter. Harry doesn’t need to know that.

In fact, Draco told him quite enough embarrassing childhood memories for today.

“I grew out of it eventually, heavily encouraged by my parents who, incidentally, never again denied me a toy. But I kept them, every one of them. I should think that counts as proof for my comprehension of sentiment.” Draco picks up his cup again. The tea has long gone cold, but since he doesn’t care about the tea as much as unambiguously closing the topic, that's alright.

The silence, however, is a tad uncomfortable. Draco doesn't usually share that story, he didn't plan on trusting Harry with it either. But there is something compelling about Harry, the way he patiently sits in front of Draco, willing and eager to hear what he has to say. Draco _wanted_ to tell him something personal.

Surely that is a good thing? Draco feels like it should be, but Harry's continued silence is making him nervous.

Why doesn't Harry say anything? Draco made it more than clear that he is done talking and would like to change the topic now, please. Maybe it's that, the courtesy of letting Draco choose safer grounds.

But Harry isn’t polite like that, he is honest and straightforward and Draco long since accepted that if he wants something from Harry, he has to put words to it.

This is not something Draco can ask for, however. He doesn’t know what exactly he should ask, what he expects, but Harry’s unwavering stare is unsettling. That doesn’t usually happen, Draco generally feels … safe when Harry is watching him, but he can see that Harry’s entire perception of him is undergoing major changes as he processes what Draco told him.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have said anything. Perhaps he should have started with something less intimate, something less vulnerable.

“You named your stuffed toy dragon Capt’n?” Harry asks, something in his voice that — is that awe?

“Actually, I named her captain, as a tribute to the dragon riders. I had problems with proper pronunciation; the name stuck longer than the problems.” Harry looks at him with that same wide-eyed possibly-awe and absolutely nothing that resembles recognition of the name. Draco, because he is still nervous and needs a distraction, latches on the topic. It’s not like talking about dragons is a hardship.

“The dragon riders are … mystical figures, I suppose is what you would call them. There is no definite proof that they ever existed and common sense tells you that dragons would sooner eat you than allow themselves to be petted, but the stories have persisted. Perhaps it’s the thrill of danger, the illicit temptation of freedom just beyond our grasp, waiting for those brave enough to jump.” Draco used to dream of being a dragon rider, of flying high over the clouds and leaving behind whatever problem he was having, growing smaller and more insignificant with every beat of these wings.

“They are said to have lived together in small groups, tribes, united under a leader who set the course. The legends disagree on how many of these tribes existed, whether there even was more than one, and most stories are focused on the same tribe. The Captain’s tribe. Mother told me stories about her and the adventures she led her people on, about the dragons and the creatures they met. She was the only logical choice to name my own dragon after.

“Father suggested I follow the proud tradition of naming things in Latin.” Draco hadn't liked that. He pouted for a good long time until he found a flaw in his father's plan. He smiles at the memory, old triumph raising up in him again. “He didn’t criticise my choice of name after that.”

“What, why not?” Harry frowns at him and it would almost be adorable, if it weren't a dreadful testament of his knowledge of Latin.

“Latin for dragon?” Surely his Latin can’t be _that_ bad, Draco might seriously have to consider offering Harry lessons if that is the case! Draco never understood how people are supposed to cast spells without any understanding of the words they speak. But then Harry’s face lights up in revelation for one short moment, before quickly falling into the same look of sheepish embarrassment that Draco saw on his father.

“It’s Draco, the Latin for dragon is Draco.” Harry wears his embarrassment with much more grace than his father did. It’s most impressive, Harry’s easy admittance to mistakes and how smoothly he moves them out of the way. Draco might almost be envious, mostly he is just charmed. “I have to say though, I wouldn’t have thought that an obstacle to you. Draco II, it does have a certain _air_ , don’t you think?”

Draco doesn’t dignify that with an answer.

“Do you still have the dragon? Or did you just keep her creepy friends?” Harry asks, breaking the silence barely just settled over them.

“Of course I still have Capt'n!” Honestly, what does Harry think Draco would have done, thrown her away? Draco is quite offended at these implications. “She lives happily with her friends in my room at the Manor, thank you very much.”

Harry’s eyes light up, and Draco feels like he made a mistake in telling him that.

“So all your stuff is still at your parents’ house? We should go get it then, move your things …” Draco doesn’t know what his face is doing, but Harry trails off in uncertainty. Then he scrunches his face up and starts again. “Look, I just mean to say, if you want to have some of your things here, then we could — _you_ could do that. You live here now, after all, and I completely understand if you want your things around.”

Draco hadn't even considered that. He only brought the necessities with him when he moved, clothes and books mostly, some of the furniture his mother insisted he take, a few portraits that would have been mortally offended had denied them the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Draco didn’t bring anything … nice, nothing comforting or sentimental, nothing that doesn't serve a purpose.

It makes sense, he supposes. When he married Harry he didn't think things would turn out as positive as they currently are. And he was right, too. There were fights and jabs and hard bargains, but they settled on something dangerously comfortable, as natural as breathing after the heavy work of fighting about it was done. Draco realised that, that he got extraordinary lucky as far as arranged marriages go (for it was arranged, even when it was himself pulling the strings and bartering with his body) but he didn’t realise that he … lives here now.

At some point, when Draco was distracted, when he look away for a bit or was hunched over his plans, Grimmauld has become his home.

Harry is right, he really would like to have some of his belongings here.

“Perhaps we should do that,” Draco says, and he hides behind his cup as Harry’s bright smile makes him blush.

* * *

By some divine miracle, Draco managed to avoid cooking duties for their date nights until now. Of course, there was that one time he convinced Blaise to do it for him, but that dinner didn’t go to plan and Draco rather not dwell on it. Then there were times when he found excuses, feeble things that only could have held up because Harry wasn’t too eager to spend the evening in each others company any more than Draco was, and next week it would be Harry’s turn to cook again. And then he somehow succeeded in talking Harry into taking on Draco’s week as well. Draco doesn’t remember how he did that, but he is rather proud of it.

Now Draco wishes he had just gotten this over with. He would have made a disappointing meal that would have been barely edible, Harry would have politely feigned appreciation and they could have dropped the ridiculous idea of cooking before it became a tradition. They are both no good at it, after all, and they could be enjoying delicious food at some expensive restaurant for their dates. They could have taken turns choosing the place where they would eat, even, if Harry would have insisted on this exchange of power between them. Draco could be picking out his most impressive clothes, getting ready for a night of grace and splendour; instead he is having a breakdown surrounded by shiny, unfeeling appliances.

It’s too late for any more excuses, however, and Draco will simply have to face his fate. The stakes are raised higher than they were before, due to Draco’s ridiculous urge to please, and Harry’s memory of what Blaise cooked for them the only tangible expectation he has in regards of Draco’s abilities. Harry will be more disappointed than he would have been otherwise, expecting Blaise’s feast and being settled with whatever Draco doesn't burn.

The evening will be a disaster.

Unfortunately, there is no way out of it. None that Draco can see at least, and he looked very thoroughly. Draco even considered admitting to his deceit and receiving Harry’s anger without the agony of humiliating himself first, but ultimately decided against it. It would be the right thing to do, of that he is sure, not dragging this out until the last possible second and doing Harry the courtesy of confessing, but Draco has never been a brave man. Owning up to your mistakes, holding your head high and looking them in the eyes when you say that yes, you did something wrong? That takes a good chunk more courage than could be safely contained inside of Draco.

Which is how he finds himself here, standing in the kitchen with several things started and nothing quite done, his plans and recipe strewn around the room indecipherable from spillage and stains. Draco is only one tiny disaster away from crawling out of the window high up the wall, meant to let the air escape. Draco is desperate, and if he cuts himself again on one of these stupidly sharp knives he might actually cry.

“Do you need any help in here?” Harry asks from somewhere behind him. Draco, who was too busy breaking down to hear him enter, flinches in shock.

Harry has an uncanny talent for sneaking, tiptoeing around in silence to suddenly pop up and scare the living daylights out of Draco. Harry thinks it’s hilarious, smoothly catching whatever Draco let fall and smirking at him, taking great pride and satisfaction in being able to frighten Draco easily. It's a crucial factor in most of his devious ploys to amuse himself and rob Draco of all his dignity, and Draco has long since given up his hopes of ever growing impervious to it.

This time Harry doesn’t laugh. Draco almost wishes he would, the look of concern Harry is giving him makes him feel even more fragile then the constant bubbling of things cooking, the timers ticking down and everything slowly winding up and up and up into one disaster of a dinner.

Draco does the only thing he can think of to regain some control over the situation, and bites Harry’s head off. When scared and cornered, the only thing that remains is flight forward.

“Does it _look_ like I need help? Move out off the way, you are standing in my light.” Draco doesn’t even make _sense_ , his voice cracking over the panic set free some time after Harry shook the desperate hold Draco had on his composure. Draco has no idea what he is saying, let alone what he hopes to achieve, but he does know that Harry doesn’t deserve this. So Draco is freaking out about dinner, that isn’t Harry’s problem.

“Yeah, it does actually.” Harry steps fully into the kitchen, approaching Draco like one would a feral animal. A _hurt_ , feral animal, with it’s leg stuck in trap, its cruel teeth buried deep into flesh and bone, whimpering pathetically and snarling in empty anger.

Fine then, Draco is done. Let the trap snap his neck, let it be over. At a certain point, they say, death is a mercy; put it out of its misery. Pansy hates that line of reasoning, has entire speeches prepared to point out just how wrong that is, how it’s not the hunters decision to make and all that, but to Draco the concept never sounded more appealing. Especially not when it’s Harry dealing the fatal blow. Wasn't it always meant to be this way, anyway?

“Okay, come on, we’ll sort this out.” Then Harry pulls Draco up — when had he fallen to the floor? — and the situation doesn’t look too bleak anymore.

For one, tasks are a lot less intimidating when they aren’t literally looming over you. There isn't much left to do, now that Draco has a clear view of it all.

More importantly, Harry is still holding his hand after pulling him up. It’s nice, grounding, a steady presence next to Draco. Draco feels like he could do anything with Harry by his side.

“What do you need to —” Draco doesn’t let him finish the sentence, he knows what to do now.

First he gathers his plans together, collects them from various surfaces — even from on top of the cupboards (more correct would be to say that _Harry_ got that one, because Draco is too small to easily reach the top and he refused to let go of Harry’s hand for something so trivial; prime opportunity for Harry to play the hero and be obnoxious about it) because nothing will happen that wasn’t carefully written down by Blaise. Blaise assured him they were foolproof, so simple a preschooler could follow them.

Blaise is a dirty _liar_ , but Draco can figure this out. Draco is no preschooler, he is smart and capable and Harry is still holding his hand and as long as you _look_ like you know what you are doing, the outcome cannot be too terrible. Draco stirs things and he throws spices into other things, adds some more because he liked the motion, adjust charms as he passes and arranges plates to look almost presentable.

And then they sit at the table, candles shining soft light onto them and Draco’s food spread out between them. Draco feels oddly accomplished. Granted, nothing in this world would get him back into that kitchen, but he thinks he managed alright in the end. If you ignore the minor breakdown and the rather dramatic rescue mission Harry had to undertake. Draco for his part is resolved to ignore it all.

Honestly, anyone would have stumbled under that unexpected pressure of cooking for a loved — his _husband,_ cooking for his husband who Draco feels significantly warmer towards than he did when he agreed to the deal. It’s all perfectly understandable. It’s all good.

“What exactly are we eating?” Harry asks, smiling faintly amused and reminding Draco that actually, it’s not all good.

Draco has no idea what it is he produced here. He already doesn’t know what it was Blaise wrote down for him, but he strayed far enough from the tidy directions to make it completely irrelevant. Admitting to that would spoil the mood, however, and Draco has always been good at talking his way out of messy situations. It’s not _lying_ , for all he knows it really could be an old family recipe, passed down for generations and one of the last things they have from their French ancestors. It’s unlikely, no one is denying that, but it is possible. Either way, Harry looks impressed and that is all that counts in the end.

Harry looks less impressed once he tries his first bite.

He doesn’t look displeased exactly, that would be rude, but he doesn’t look pleased either. Draco didn’t expect he would — of course Draco didn’t, he was there cooking this mess! — regardless, it's still a shame to see Harry's soft smile replaced by a subtle frown. He catches himself quickly, perhaps because they are somehow still holding hands (yes, Draco has no idea how that happened and no, he will not admit to performing quite complicated acrobatic feats to keep this connection between them so as to avoid coming into the embarrassing situation of having to ask to please return to what they were doing because he liked the feeling of Harry’s hand in his). Draco might be skilled in showcasing disinterest but he could never get himself out of the habit of _moving_ , of clenching his hands or tapping his feet or biting his lips. It drove his father crazy, how abysmal of a liar Draco is.

“I like my food with a little more salt, that’s all,” Harry says, his tone reassuring and almost believable. Too bad for him that Draco knows for a fact that he is lying, because these past weeks it has been Harry who did all their cooking. If Harry had a particular fondness for salt, Draco would have noticed. Still, it’s kind of him to pretend it’s not Draco’s fault he can’t eat the food.

Draco reminds himself of that as he watches Harry add salt, reminds himself sharper as he watches Harry add sugar and he almost says out loud in an official reminder as Harry gets up to collect more things from the pantry. It’s all good, Draco didn’t expect to cook anything perfect so adjustments are … good. He can learn from this. Mistakes are a crucial part of improvement. He doesn’t care about the cooking anyway, therefore it doesn’t matter if Harry silently judges him for being terrible at it. Honestly.

Harry comes back with — is that _lemon juice_? Draco didn’t even use lemon juice, how could Harry need to adjust that one? Perhaps that is the problem, perhaps he should have used it. Blaise didn’t say anything of the sort, but Draco did stray pretty far from his recipe. Well, Draco decides that if Harry wants to add lemon juice to his food, that isn’t his problem. Harry isn’t a master chef either, he doesn’t get to decide how things have to taste. Just to be petty, Draco takes a bit of his own food, untouched since the moment he set it on the table, eyes locked on Harry’s.

It doesn’t taste great, and Draco can see how salt and pepper might make it better, but he doesn’t allow that concession on his face. Instead he swallows and smiles, because that is what you do when you get free food, you don’t go through all the trouble of getting lemon juice to make the cook doubt their culinary skills. To his credit, Harry does look properly apologetic.

The whole thing is a bit ridiculous. Harry is extremely careful not to offend Draco, looking at him like Draco might leap over the table to attack him or, better yet, like he might drown himself in his drink if Harry proclaimed he didn't like the food no matter how much lemon juice he adds. Harry watches him closely as he carefully mixes a few drops of the lemon, even more careful as he adds much more after finding the level of sourness not up to his standards yet.

Yes, Draco decides, he cannot take this seriously. It’s absurd, the entire situation is utterly absurd — Harry’s quirked eyebrow, the smirk tugging at his lips, the hand now causally pouring in ever more of the lemon juice. Draco is oddly calm in that absurdity Harry created. After all, what does it matter if Harry finds out he has been kind-of-not-technically lying to him? It doesn’t matter at all, because Harry is ridiculous and he doesn’t care about how many fancy meals Draco is able to cook. He is uncultured like that.

“This doesn’t taste much of lemon at all,” Harry says, gravely, imparting the universes great wisdom. And Draco — Draco doesn’t know what’s happening anymore, but it isn't important because he is _enjoying_ this. Draco nods, acknowledging the suspicion and taking up the bottle to confirm the verdict.

It should not have come as a surprise that there is little actual lemon listed among the ingredients. Draco stares at the words, mentally flicking through them for anything he recognises and coming up empty.

Until his eyes land on the expiry date, then he has to suppress a truly inappropriate laugh.

“Now, I don’t know how old exactly this bottle is, or for how long it has been open —” Harry frowns, pausing with his fork midair. Good call. “— but it says here to use within 8 days after first opening.”

A series of complicated emotions flicker over Harry’s face, starting with incomprehension wandering over horrified understanding and denial, finally settling onto disgust and an apprehensive glance at his food.

The plate sits innocently on the table, nothing smelling suddenly foul and nothing moving, just the food. Harry shrugs, winks at Draco and takes another bite without so much as a grimace.

Well, this got really appalling, really quick.

“Still better than your cooking.” Gone is the unsettling gentleness, the being watched lest he cracks. Draco is immensely grateful. So grateful in fact, that he doesn’t even hold the insult against him.

“As if yours were any better. Perhaps I should lace your next meal with lemon juice as well.” Draco wouldn't, because he has _standards_ and a healthy wish to stay far away from self-induced food poisoning, thank you, but it’s decent threat nonetheless.

Harry doesn’t understand it as such. His eyes light up in challenge and he leans forward, pulling Draco in with nothing but that spark. Draco is helpless to do anything but lean in further, an awed fool come to marvel at Harry's glory.

“I bet you mine is better.” And just like that, it’s on.

They nod at each other, the agreement unspoken between them. They will see who is the better cook, next time or the time after that. It’s a competition now, and Draco is going to win.


	14. Chapter 14

Harry has to admit, Draco has something of a talent when it comes to interior design. The living room looks great, better than Harry managed, choosing his furniture solely after how comfortable they are and how much they would annoy Grimmauld. He didn’t get all of them through the wards no matter how much he tried and how hard he glared, but mostly he created a lovely, mismatched assemble of anything that goes against traditional values.

Until Draco came along and stealthily started vanishing Harry’s bitterly fought for furniture. He didn’t notice at first — who actively notes their furniture? You don’t expect stuff to go missing — and when he did finally catch on it was far more amusing to watch Draco thinking himself oh so secretive. Harry never brought it up.

That couch, though, that is where he draws the line. Faded paisley and the corners ferret-bitten, it truly is a hideous thing. It also, more importantly is the first victory won over Grimmauld (and in his marriage, when Draco claimed to have vanished it and Harry didn’t bust the obvious lie lest Draco vanished it just to prove that he can) and it’s so perfectly offending that Sirius would be proud.

It looks even better with Harry's friends on it, arguing over what movie to watch and which food to place where. Harry missed this. It’s irrationally possessive, but it isn’t the same when they aren't gathering in his house. Now that it truly feels like _his house_ , despite the frugal rooms that are meant to be homelier and the unfortunate occasion when Harry still holds his breath in anticipation before the doors open for him, as if they would never consider denying him entry — well, now that it’s _his house_ Harry feels a justified need to brag. Subtly, with grand couches and a thick carpet, comfortable to sit on even when you are as prone to complaining as Seamus is (which is the most infuriating, because he _chooses_ to sit on the floor, only to be whinging and reaching for Dean — it doesn’t matter, Harry has a carpet thick enough even for Seamus’ delicate sensibilities).

Draco sits painfully out of place, still in that armchair Harry allowed him to flee into after dragging him out of the kitchen. Honestly, Harry didn’t think Draco would dread this evening enough to hide in the _kitchen_ , a room Draco himself declared to be a physical manifestation of all things evil and impossible expectations. Slightly over dramatic if you asked Harry, but since he had been focused on managing the bemoaned hell at that moment, he didn’t have time to make his opinions heard.

And so now here Draco sits, a rigid block of frozen marble in the familiar tide of his friends, buzzing and bargaining around him. Harry … doesn’t like it.

Of course he doesn’t, he doesn't like people being cast out, however unintentionally it might have happened. It’s more than that general dislike, though. It’s _Draco_ , and without realising it, Harry had wanted them all to seamlessly melt together. It’s a ridiculous wish, connected with much work if at all possible, but there you have it. It might have been Ron and Hermione pushing him, but Harry wanted them to meet Draco just as much.

Little good as it did as an argument, they all already know each other. Draco was right in that, and he was right in worrying about the impression he left, too. He might not have outright admitted to that, but Harry isn’t stupid; he can read between the lines. Draco's shame was practically screaming. Harry didn’t know what to say to that (he still doesn’t know, what _do_ you say when your husband, who used to be an evil git and sort of your nemesis has a crisis over said behaviour?) so he said something vaguely reassuring about open minds and second chances, about a new willingness due to their continued cohabitation without major victims — most of it was drivel, honestly.

Sure, Ron and Hermione did pressure him into making this meeting happen, no questions about that. He might have overstated their enthusiasm, though. Ron and Hermione looked forward to meeting again about as much as Draco did, which is to say not at all. Of course they had seen each other again since Draco moved in — kind of difficult to avoid with Draco skulking about the house and them hanging around so much to make sure Harry doesn’t get another evil scar by some totally unexplainable accident — but that was mostly in passing and with the mutual understanding to not acknowledge each other.

In conclusion, no one was all that excited to hear that Draco would join them in watching a movie today. Where Draco was restless and frantically checking his hair and tugged his selves, their guests had what Draco likes to call ‘the moral righteousness of winners’. Somehow Harry doubts it’s a compliment. It’s part of this big angry rant about social context for grudges (as in, the good guys can do whatever they want and the bad guys will be glared at for sneezing too loudly; Harry summarised and simplified for himself about the third time Draco muttered about it) and the much more familiar ‘bloody smug Gryffindors’.

Harry did his best to say all the right things, he really did, but in the end he just nodded and hummed at what he hoped to be appropriate places. For one, he didn’t think Draco would take kindly to an interruption of his wild gesticulating. The other thing, _even_ _if_ Harry where to interrupt and not immediately lose his head for doing so, what would he have said? That yes, it’s all totally unfair and the world should bow down and kiss Draco's feet? He doesn’t believe that. He also doesn’t believe in the grand conspiracy against anyone not ‘Potter approved’, which is a term Draco threw around like Harry was supposed to know what he meant. He didn’t, but he also didn’t ask. He does have his suspicions, and he would think that a marriage is the best seal of approval one can get (as long as no one pokes and looks too closely and sees all the strings attached, that is) but there was no use discussing the intricacies of possibly imagined paranoid politics, not while Draco was still ranting.

Which led to them not talking at all and Draco being a nervous wreck now, sitting on the armchair and watching them all with wide eyes, waiting until they are done ignoring him and tear into him. Harry feels really bad about it.

Harry really can’t blame his friends either. He can’t expect them be rushing to make Draco feel welcome while Draco turns his hideout into a throne. And he would, Harry knows Draco a fair bit better these days than he ever did, and he knows with stone cold certainty that that is what Draco would do.

It would be incredibly easy to go back to hating him for that. But Harry can’t go back, because he knows what he didn’t before, that it’s not arrogance (not _all_ arrogance, at least) or a superiority-complex, but insecurity. Draco is lost, he doesn’t know what to do or how to fit in, so he compensates with confidence. Overcompensates, really, so that he doesn’t end up suave and charismatic but entitled and bratty.

Harry knows that now, and he can’t abandon Draco to his helplessness.

That realisation is bloody useless in solving the problem. It might _be_ the actual problem, because without it Harry could go on blissfully oblivious and write Draco off as a stand-offish prick who doesn’t know how to appreciate the simple, good things in life. Well, whatever it is, it makes Harry’s evening a whole lot more complicated than bringing these two markedly different parts of his life together was already going to be.

Harry needs a plan. Unfortunately the only plan that he can think of is that _he_ should say something, something clever and funny to break the underlying tension and make himself the focus of the room, since he is the common factor, see how things go from there.

There are two major problems with that plan.

First, he would hate to be the centre of any room most of the time, but especially this room and particularly this situation. No thanks.

Second, there is nothing witty he could say, anyway. Which neatly solves his first problem, since no one is interested in watching him silently brood. Well, Draco is, but he is subtle enough in his glances and Harry long since used to being watched by him, that it’s kind of nice; something consistent at long last.

What Harry truly needs, since Plan A failed, is an ally. He has plenty of people to choose from, so that should be easy, but Harry has an inkling that it won’t be. After all, would he need this elaborate planning if it were easy?

First to consider are Ron and Hermione, who Harry is going to blame for pretty much everything happening here today.

It was their idea, they insisted, they should deal with the fallout.

They also have this weird love triangle going on with Parkinson. Harry tries really hard not to know any of the details, but he doesn’t have to be aware of details to know that Parkinson is not only a socially awkward Slytherin, but one of Draco’s best friends. The kind of friend he agrees to see before he had his first tea in the morning and, on one memorable occasion, to leave the house in a flurry of commotion in the middle of the night at a vaguely distressed floo call. For some reason Grimmauld made sure Harry was awake for that — perhaps he was supposed to help Draco into his coat? Well, Harry didn’t, he mostly grumbled and asked what the big deal was, what could possibly be important enough to wake him, but Draco ignored him. Harry still doesn't know, though he has wondered about it ever now and then. He doesn’t think he ever will know. It’s not all that crucial anyway, it’s mostly fine and something fun to speculate about, but it also says a lot about Draco as a person.

About Parkinson too, though what it says about her is far less flattering seeing how Draco (and Harry, by extension) could clearly need her help right about now and she isn’t here. Harry doesn’t trust her with his friends, and this is just further proof. He should point that out to Ron later, he has been categorically denying that there could be any flaws to Parkinson.

Yet another reason Ron should be the one to fix this mess and talk to Draco, he must have gotten good at explaining normal people things to fancy snakes. Hermione is only semi-passable at them herself, sometimes, so she is out, but Ron would be the ideal candidate.

Ron is also whispering something into Hermione's ear though, one of her dark locks curled around his fingers, and they look so achingly close and private that Harry doesn't have the heart to separate them. It would also do them some good to forget about Parkinson and focus on what they already have in each other, finally realise and commit to the love they have both been quietly feeding over the years. Harry isn’t going to stop them.

Ginny might be the better choice, anyway. Ginny is _good_ with people on a level that Harry never fully understood. She _gets_ them, motivates and inspires them, pulls them all along in that whirlwind of energy that surrounds her. Yeah, Ginny would be brilliant at engaging Draco in the conversation. In fact, Harry is reasonably sure that they would be brilliant together, Draco and Ginny, they would get along really well. It wouldn’t end well for Harry, because Draco made it his goal in life to make Harry suffer on ever more creative ways (lately that has been achieved by switching labels on all kinds of spices and ingredients he _knows_ Harry will use for cooking, evil manipulation to tip the tide of their competition in his favour) and Ginny simply has too much information. They would be unstoppable together, and Harry shudders to think what they would come up with.

Then he remembers that Ginny has a well justified apprehension against anything Malfoy (she still doesn’t forgive Lucius for basically handing her to Voldemort, and Harry can’t blame her for that, he hasn’t forgiven it either and he didn’t even go through a fraction of what Ginny had to deal with, alone and so terribly young) and that it’s highly unlikely they will combine forces anytime soon. Harry vaguely feels like he should be grateful, but instead he just aches for all of them. Darkness casts a long shadow, and ever now and then it catches them again, when Harry least expects it.

With Ginny out and Ron and Hermione still wrapped up in themselves, that leaves only Dean and Seamus. They are equally as entwined, more so even, but Harry has less qualms over breaking them apart for one evening. They’ll be fine, moping perhaps because they are disgustingly in love like that, but Harry doesn’t have to fear for their relationship if he reminds them that there are other people in the room. They have gotten quite good at that anyway, the being affectionate without making others in the room feel like they are intruding, and given how they are talking to Ginny, Harry is pretty sure they are already well aware of the dimension of the living room. Maybe just not of Draco, desperately looking for an in.

Harry could theoretically steal Dean away from where he is sitting pressed next to Seamus, and nudge him to go talk to Draco. Only that it probably wouldn’t do them any good, because Dean can be painfully shy when meeting new people — and as already established, this counts as meeting Draco anew — and the last thing Harry needs right now is _two_ figures sitting awkwardly in one corner without talking to each other. No, Dean is best served keeping Seamus in check.

That is the other thing, Seamus can’t be trusted with new people either. He is loud and boisterous, intimidatingly determined to make friends — he would scare Draco away and Harry would never see him again.

Dean and Seamus are both out as ‘first to initiate contact’ — Harry needs them to balance each other and sending them _both_ to Draco would shift the balance onto their side, which would be sure to make Draco feel like a cornered animal, more so than he already does.

Harry wishes Neville were here. Neville would know what to do, he is kind and warm and used to coaxing plants to grow more and greener, Neville would calm Draco right down. Just Harry’s luck that Neville has a surprisingly erratic schedule for a gardener, resulting in him being less of a stable at movie night than they would like.

Luna, too, isn’t here when she would be invaluable. Luna has a strange dislike for movies and the TV and rarely joins them. She tried explaining it to Harry once, but it sounded remarkably like old people warning the uncouth youth about their eyes going square and their brains turning to mush and Harry tuned her out on instinct before he fully realised what he was doing. He didn’t ask again.

With Plan B (appoint ally to talk to and include Draco) failed so spectacularly before it even fully started, there is only Plan A to return to.

Harry still doesn’t like Plan A. None of his initial problems are solved, nothing witty to say and still no desire to have anyone poke him with questions and attention. But there is no Plan C and Draco looks terrible how he sits there, a proud husk with nothing to cling to but appearance. Harry can’t ignore it, c and if there is no one else to do it, Harry will have to be the one to break the agreed upon silence. He doesn’t like it, but his duty has never been determined by what he would _like_ and he did far worse things for far less reason.

“Draco, what movie do you want to see?” Harry realises approximately two seconds later that that was an _incredibly stupid_ thing to ask.

Everyone looks up at the sound of Draco’s name (first name, too, not Malfoy as they must have expected because Harry couldn’t put into words the simple joy calling him Draco brings and consequently didn’t tell them about this development) staring first at Harry who spoke and then at Draco, who was spoken to.

Draco looks like a deer caught in headlights (this is one of the few time the phrase actually applies, the startled grace from a creature that seconds ago thought itself alone and unwatched, the unmitigated terror at the _thing_ rushing towards it with uncompromising speed, _seeing_ and knowing and still driving on without mercy) and Harry flounders desperately for something — anything — to say and get the eyes back on himself. At least _he_ doesn't seriously consider bolting, while Draco looks seconds away from throwing himself off of the armchair in the closest thing he can get to a dramatic escape.

Although, considering what Harry said so far, perhaps he shouldn't say anything more. Asking Draco about his favourite movie — what was he thinking? First, Harry is relatively certain Draco doesn’t know what a movie _is_ , admitting that is a humiliation Harry could have spared him. Then that is a stupid question to ask anyway, even people who do know what a movie is. Favourite anything is a stupid question, really, Harry was never a fan. Huge parts of that is that he never knows what to answer, because favourites are fickle and liable to change at all times, but especially when put on the spot like this.

Thankfully they are both saved — Draco from having to ask Harry what he is talking about and Harry from having to quickly find another, better distraction — by the floo flaring to life. Even if it’s nothing at all, they are granted one moment of glorious panic and chaos, where literally anything could step out of his floo. (Harry isn’t usually this fascinated with the floo, he isn’t some weirdo, but times are desperate and he will cling to whatever opportunity presents itself.)

Their unexpected visitor, when they finally deign to fully enter the room, is even more unexpected than Harry thought possible, with all the potential and despair of the situation.

Pansy Parkinson.

This is either brilliant or terrible, and Harry hesitates between the two for too long to throw her out. He refuses to take the complete blame for _Pansy Parkinson_ standing in his living room — gloriously over-dressed for what was supposed to be a calm evening spend in the company of friends, Harry isn’t even surprised — because it’s _Draco_ who immediately jumps up and pulls her down onto his armchair.

Harry narrows his eyes at them. It’s a rather small chair, you see, not for one person sure but if it were big enough for two people (even people bony as Draco and Parkinson) they would hardly call it an armchair, would they? The chair is small and it was just fine for Draco alone but with _Parkinson_ as well things get rather close — Harry doesn’t know why he is jealous. He knows he _is_ jealous, he felt it often enough to recognise the feeling and know that it does only harm to deny it, but he doesn’t know _why_ he should feel it here.

He isn’t stupid, he does have a pretty good idea of it (Parkinson all snuggled up to his husband, doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure that one out) but that doesn’t make any sense. Draco is not only gay (Harry _assumes,_ they never really talked about sexual identity but Harry of all people should know better than to _assume_ , having explained that bisexuality is indeed an actual thing, really) but also married and utterly convinced Parkinson fancies Harry’s best friends — there are very few points jealousy is collecting. It does have one though, and that’s a pretty big one.

Draco looks _comfortable_ with Parkinson basically in his lap, comfortable like he rarely does with Harry. He _clings_ to Parkinson, hides behind her from the room and allows her eerie shark smile to eclipse him. Parkinson gets to do all the things Harry hasn’t quite owned up to wanting just yet, the very public proclamation of intimacy and affection, the easy familiarity with which they fit against each other. They grew up together, Draco told him, and Harry would bet his last penny that they sat like this on chairs more often than anyone would bother counting. It stands to reason they got comfortable doing it.

But jealousy doesn’t listen to reason, and Harry doesn't try to fight it as he glares at Parkinson. Fighting it is as successful as ignoring it, after all, and in the end all you can do with jealousy is drown it and spit it out like vitriol, lest it borrows deep inside of you to nest and fester. It’s an ugly emotion, without a doubt, but that is the thing with ugly emotions, they stick, and they take, and there is no getting rid of them, no _winning_ over them.

“Parkinson, how nice of you to drop by. I didn’t realise we were expecting more guests, or I would have gotten a plate for you as well.” Harry tries his best to smile at her, to play the host for at least the beginning of the evening (he can plot her murder later, when everyone else is watching the movie) but he fears it comes out more as a grimace.

 _Draco's_ smile on the other hand, that is perfection; proper apologetic and charming on the surface, but not too deep for Harry to see is his iron will not to let go of his friend, that not telling Harry was calculation and he isn’t sorry for it.

“I forgive you the oversight, I’m sure Draco isn’t entirely innocent in the matter.” Harry has to fight hard to not let his pathetic grimace of a smile slip.

How _gracious_ of her, coming into _Harry’s_ house to steal _his_ husband and _his_ friends but being kind enough to not make a fuss about the lack of welcome she received. “As for the plate, I don’t think I shall need one. I’m sure I will find a kind soul to share with me.”

Harry doesn’t like the way she said that. Ostensibly she could of course mean Draco, who she is still glued against, but Harry knows she doesn't. Even if she did, he isn’t particularly keen on that happening. However, the truth of her words is much worse. Parkinson doesn’t wink at Draco, but at Ron and Hermione who both look sickeningly eager to welcome her between them. Do they realise Parkinson is aggressively throwing herself at both of them? Harry doesn’t know and he doesn’t think he _wants_ to know, either. Neither of the possible answers seem particularly flattering for them.

“Nonsense, I’ll just be a minute!” Harry is out of that room before he can do anything rash. Parkinson is _infuriating_ , but he can’t allow her to rile him up. That would be letting her win, something Harry has no intention of doing. The kitchen should be a safe enough space to calm down and find a way to get Parkinson out of his house without looking like the bad guy.

The kitchen, as it turns out, is not a safe space. That has more to do with Draco being in there (which, how? Harry left before him and there is no chance Draco could have passed him without Harry noticing, there is no other way into the kitchen. There they are again, then, favouritism, Harry’s old friend.) than with the knives hanging on the wall, sharp and dangerously glinting in the light.

Even more interesting than how Draco got here, is why he would want to be here in the first place. He didn’t look like he would want to come out from behind Parkinson any time soon.

“Surprised to see you here. What, did Parkinson throw you to the side to make more space for Ron and Hermione?” Harry isn’t bitter, he might sound it but he _isn't_. He is just curious about the life of his friend in his house, that’s all there is to it. Curiosity isn't a fault, it’s what makes him a good friend. If that has the benefit of also reminding Draco that Parkinson is a vile snake that should not be hugged as closely as he did, well, that’s just a nice bonus.

“Yes, mostly. I also wanted to ask you not to be so rude to her.” Draco doesn't understands Harry’s subtle hinting about snakes and their inherent lack of trustworthiness. (When did Harry stop counting Draco among these snakes? Because he definitely did stop, though Draco is no less of a Slytherin than Harry is a Gryffindor. Perhaps he is a domesticated snake, still capable though less likely to bite and demanding ridiculously high standards in food and lodging before being satisfied to keep the status quo.) and instead just … says that, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“ _Excuse me_?” There is more Harry means to say, about arrogance and priorities and insults, but he can’t wrap his thoughts around the words.

Obviously that is Draco’s fault, standing there all causal and examining _something —_ Harry doesn’t know nor care — very pointedly unconcerned with _Pansy sodding Parkinson_ sitting in their living room with the sole intention of pressing Harry’s friends into her personal play things. It was also Draco who invited her, who insisted on that ridiculous bet on her flirting — yeah, Harry feels very comfortable blaming all this mess completely on Draco.

That means it’s his to clean up, as well, _that_ is what Harry should tell him. Of course, the moment Harry composed himself enough for that realisation, Draco rudely steals his space.

“I said I want you to be nicer to Pansy. She is a guest here, and my best friend. She deserves better than your pouting because Ganger and Weasley like her more than they like you.” Draco has put down the shiny metal thing he was pretending to look at, eyes piercing into Harry.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise to Harry that Draco doesn’t see his friend as the threat to careful bliss that she is. After all, Draco grew up with her, invited her, doesn’t have any personal boundaries with her — Harry went over this a million times this evening alone, he _knows_ that, if he had to choose, Draco would chose Parkinson over him. And that’s fine! Harry would choose any of his friends over Draco, too. Well, he would need to deliberate on that one, probably. It depends on the situation, and on the friend, on how much Draco annoyed him lately and if it would be a permanent choice — anyway, the point is, Harry doesn’t begrudge Draco his friend. What kind of person would do that?

No, he doesn’t mind that Draco sticks up for his friend, it’s kind of touching really, but he also doesn't want to have a fight over this. The situation is engineered by Draco, as previously settled, and now Draco comes in here looking for a fight because Harry doesn’t embrace the temptress dead set on destroying his friends lives? Oh no, Harry doesn't think so.

“Okay, first of all, that’s not true. They might want into her bed—” Which, by the way, is the only thing Harry understands about the whole infatuation thing they seem to have fallen prey to. Parkinson is an attractive woman, one would have to be blind not to see that and if she would throw herself at Harry as blatantly and shamelessly as she does with his friends, well, before he was married he would have seen no reason to deny her. And since his friends are utterly inept and still haven't admitted their feelings for each other, and consequently aren’t married, they are free to — actually, Harry doesn’t want to think about what they are free to do with Parkinson. “ — but that doesn’t mean they like her more than me. Romantic entanglements aren’t more important than friendships, and whatever they have barely counts as romantic _consideration_ , so...”

Harry's words hang awkwardly in the air, trailed off where he didn’t draw his conclusion. Honestly, he expected Draco to interrupt him, he doesn't know where he is going with this rant. He is also very busy _not_ thinking about what his friends might do with Parkinson, how that would even work because there happen to be three of them — nope, Harry is _not_ thinking about it. They can do whatever they want, Harry won’t judge, but he doesn’t need to know.

“I apologise, you are totally not pouting. Was there anything more you wanted to say?” Draco drawls, far too amused by Harry’s mind going haywire. Harry glares at him.

“I’m not — yes, yes there was! Why didn’t you tell me you invited her?” That is the crux of it, what bothers Harry the most. He thinks he could have dealt with Parkinson just fine, had he only known she would be here. He could have prepared to be smirked at and treated with appalling condescension, could perhaps even have made his peace with the flirting he will be subjected to, but Harry never got the chance. Because Draco didn't think it necessary to tell him.

“She wanted a date with your Weasleys.” Draco says that as if it’s a perfectly reasonable answer when, in fact, it isn’t an answer at all.

Parkinson wanted a date, Harry knew that. Draco told him, all smug and pleased with himself, and Harry … Harry might have deliberately forgotten about it. He would have gotten around to it! Just, maybe when he had more mental capacities free to deal with the inevitably bad fall out.

Draco dragged her here though, and there is no avoiding the absolute train wreck that is about to happen.

“You mentioned that. I also said that I would talk to them about it.” There is a realisation here, starting to trickle in Harry's mind, slow and horrible. Harry isn’t sure he wants it.

He doesn’t think he wants to know. Ignorance is bliss, that is what they say, and Harry might have always thought that saying a bit lacking and oversimplified (what you don’t know can still make your life miserable, wars have a way of driving that point home) but here he is inclined to agree with it.

“Well, have you talked to them?” Draco is relentless, spoon feeding Harry the realisation he just decided he doesn’t want to have. Harry wishes Draco would shut up, that he stayed in the living room, inappropriately cosy with Parkinson. But the question is asked, and whether Harry voices it out loud or not, the answer is ringing in his mind just as clear.

“No, but —” Harry is interrupted by Draco, who apparently needed nothing but that tiny confession before he keeps condemning Harry for having common sense.

“There you have it. I knew you didn’t like the idea of Pansy with your friends and I thought —” Now it’s Harry’s turn to interrupt, because he doesn’t like where this is going. _I thought_ — that's a dangerous phrase, one Harry learnt to pay attention to and be ready to duck. In this case, Harry knows exactly what Draco was going to say, what he _thought_ , the dreadful realisation finally upon him.

“What, that I wouldn’t pay my debt because I don’t like the price?” Harry might be looming over Draco a bit, crowding him against the wall in his sudden fury.

Well, it’s not actually all that sudden, Harry was riled up before he even came in here, Draco must have known that when he followed him. Draco knew the risk of this happening.

“It sounds ridiculous when you put it like that,” Draco says, after quite some time stumbling and looking for the right words. It’s almost disappointing to see what he settled on, the pouting that was to be expected, the hands held high in self-conscious defence. Right, because Draco’s twig arms would stop Harry.

Does Draco honestly believe Harry would hit him? That's quite horrifying. Granted, they don’t have the _best_ history, so the thought isn’t exactly unfounded, but they are _married_ , they touch all the time and Draco pokes and prods Harry into agitation and anger and — not the time, Harry has something more important to focus on here.

“But that is what you thought?” Harry is well trained in pressing answers out of Draco, even when he already knows the answer, when he already knows he won’t like it because it’s either a lie or, what’s worse, the truth.

“Yes, that is what I thought. Satisfied now?” Draco stands up straighter, glaring up at Harry and defying the looming shadow Harry casts onto him. Harry would be impressed at that (not many people that can hold their own under his glower) but he is too angry to pay any attention to it, too hurt to examine what Draco might think and feel.

“No! How should I be satisfied when I just learnt that you don’t trust me?” They might never have spoken of trust in such words, but Harry was sure that was more to blame on that requiring _talking about it_ and not the fact that trust is plain not there.

Apparently he was wrong. Apparently Draco does _not_ trust him, which casts a concerning new light on their relationship.

If Draco doesn’t trust him, how did they get as close as they are? What about the first name thing, about the hugs and the soft smiles and the elaborate breakfast? What about when Harry told Draco about Sirius and how they sleep in the same bed ever since Grimmauld froze them into compliance? They never said anything about trust, but Harry does trust Draco. He doesn’t know since when or how but he trusts him implicitly. He thought Draco trusts him, as well. He certainly hoped so.

“I never claimed not to trust you!” That sounds awfully close like an excuse, talking around the truth because Draco is too cowardly to admit it. Too close for Harry.

“And yet Parkinson is here,” Harry points out. To be fair, it’s the only thing that really screams of missing trust, but it doesn’t need more than one tiny question for doubt to sink in and spread.

Parkinson is here, Draco didn’t tell him anything about it, though he all but admitted to having planned on her presence, and quick like that, Harry doesn’t know what to believe anymore. How much of it, of _them,_ was real? Was any of it real at all, or just a neatly trimmed facade for Harry to play with, planned as meticulously as Parkinson coming here but executed better, without Harry noticing? Would Draco have ever told him? Probably not, he seems —

“Because I didn’t want to be alone with your friends!” Draco’s outburst interrupts Harry’s increasingly paranoid thoughts, cuts through the thread of flimsy connections and conspiracy his mind was providing.

Harry is grateful for it. He doesn’t like when his mind goes there, falling back into war-mode and trying to trace where a sick and twisted mind that yearned to be eternal would hide its soul. Questioning everything served Harry quite well during the war, but it does him no favours in the aftermath. It doesn’t make peace and closure easy.

“What?” Harry asks, because he both completely lost what they were talking about and can’t believe what Draco confessed to.

And well, Harry can be something of a prick and he wants Draco to say it again; it must have cost him much to admit to his insecurity and Harry would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy hearing it.

“There are so many of them, and they all hate me! Excuse me for not wanting to be utterly alone in a room full of people who would be delighted if I dropped dead. I brought Pansy because I didn’t know if you would —” Draco breaks off, abruptly enough that Harry knows he wanted to say more but caught himself in the last second. Draco looks _guilty_ , hands over his mouth to hold the accusations inside. Too late for that, it’s already out in the air, laughing between them, more dangerous than if Draco had just said it.

Draco doesn’t trust him. And here Harry thought they had something good.

Harry is exhausted, drained, the realisation settling over him and weighing him down. This is why he didn’t want to know, why Draco should have stayed in the living room. Harry doesn't even have energy left to glare at Parkinson, later, when they go back in. _If_ they go back in.

“What, what did you think I would do, Draco?” Harry needs to hear him say it, now that he already knows. One last fatal blow, a mercy.

“I thought you would forget about me, that I would be trapped watching you all enjoy yourself and wait to be judged. I thought you only wanted me there so your friends would stop bothering you about it and everyone would be satisfied I'm as horrible a husband as they decided I would be. I thought you brought me to gloat.” Draco spits the words into Harry’s face, each of them hurting more than the last.

How did Harry miss this? Trust, it’s so important, such a basic thing defining every relationship, either in its bounds or its absence, and yet they never stop to think about it. Harry’s whole life works on trust, the only reason he even still _has_ a life is because he trusted other people to have his back and take care of themselves. He assumed that trust would stretch into every aspect in his life. He didn’t foresee the marriage, but it doesn’t change the ethos.

Harry had no idea losing the illusion of trust would cut him this deep.

“How do I fix it?” That's the only thing he should concentrate on, not the various implications and murky thoughts calling to him from the depth of his brooding mind. He can’t change the past (he _tried_ , more so than most who mourn how unreachable it is, but all his raw magic and Hermione's books were useless. The past is done with, not to be changed. Except that thing with the Hippogriff, but that was a short time frame and mostly the time turner; those were all destroyed) but he _can_ change the future, and so that is what Harry will do.

“What do you — you can’t _fix_ this! There is nothing broken for you to fix!” Draco protests, but Harry already made up his mind.

It’s simple, so laughably simple. Harry liked what they had, or what he _thought_ they had. He liked sharing his life with Draco, liked pretending not to notice as Draco watched his cooking to, as he claims, learn from Harry’s mistakes and liked even more when they started cooking together, much more often than just once a week, arguing over whose fault it is that they still can’t cook and who screwed up the pasta. Harry liked going to bed with Draco pressing close, even liked waking up with Draco’s hair in his face, though he wouldn't admit that one if held at the tip of a wand. Harry liked _Draco_ , and he refuses to lose him.

“How do I earn your trust?”

Draco blinks at him, blinks again when no answer is forthcoming.

This is kind of heartbreaking and incredibly frustrating. How is Harry supposed to build trust between them when Draco looks like he doesn’t even know what the word means? That at least Harry knows to be false, he didn’t need to marry Draco to learn that he trust his friends implicitly. It should be a comforting thought, that Draco isn’t all alone in the big wide world, that he does have other people to trust and love. Harry just isn’t one of them.

(It hurts, despite how Harry decided to concentrate his efforts on improving the future, it hurts.)

“Okay, different question. If you were worried about my friends coming over, why didn’t you tell me? We could have talked about this, rescheduled — hell, we could have cancelled the whole thing and made a new plan of how to appease their curiosity.” There would have been plenty of options, meeting them alone instead of taking them on as a group, for example, change the setting to somewhere Draco would be more comfortable, discusses a shared strategy on how to alleviate Draco’s fear of abandonment. They could have pulled this off smoothly and without pain. But now they are here, and Draco looks close to falling apart.

Should Harry go and get Pansy? Nothing he says seems to help, in fact Harry is pretty sure he is making it worse, but the thought of needing _Pansy_ to comfort his husband rankles. Draco doesn’t trust him, he probably doesn't want Harry here, even if he didn’t explicitly say it. It’s Harry’s responsibly to be considerate and read the mood, to do what he would like Draco to do where their roles reversed.

Thing is, Harry would like to be hugged. Draco _does_ look like he needs a hug, the only thing holding Harry back is the nagging feeling that he can’t judge what Draco seems to need anymore, not really, because Harry doesn’t _know_ him, not as he thought he did.

It’s a ridiculous and unproductive thought, and Harry decides to ignore it and follow his instincts. The worst that could happen is that Draco doesn’t want Harry to hug him and he finds himself at the wrong end of a nasty hex, but at least then Harry knows where he stands.

Draco, as it turns out, desperately needed that hug. He practically runs into Harry’s arms the moment he opens them. Harry meant for the gesture to be more of a warning, of sorts, a projection of intention and making sure Draco is alright with that, but it works quite well as invitation. Harry prefers it as invitation.

Carding his fingers through Draco’s hair, his other arm slung around his torso, Harry realises that, maybe, he needed this hug too. Not as much as Draco, sure, but there is something grounding to being close to Draco like this, to holding him tight and losing all his senses to Draco, the smell of him and the sound of his breathing, his hair and his clothes and the feeling of Draco’s hand gripping him right back — it feels like that first hug, when Draco single handedly kept Harry’s world from breaking apart.

It’s perfect, all of their problems and responsibilities far off to be forgotten somewhere, until Draco tenses in his arms. Harry is immediately on fully alert, checks that he didn’t do something to make Draco uncomfortable, that there is no outward threat that would explain the sudden shift. But there is nothing there and things all look fine — Draco starts talking, low and mumbled against Harry’s skin in abrupt bursts of words, but talking nonetheless.

“I didn’t want things to change between us. I was scared — I thought if I told you that I wasn’t ready to meet your friends …” Draco trails off, the words getting lost in shame. His fingers dig painfully into Harry’s shoulder and ribs, as if worried he would leave after that confession, and while Harry burns up with the need to know what Draco was going to say, reassuring him is more important. Harry couldn't define what kind of miracle they found here, the incredible ability of simple touch being so all-encompassing, but he intents to exploit it to its fullest.

Harry pulls Draco firmer against his chest, moves his hands with more intention and thought than before and starts murmuring reassuring drivel, just for the sake of extending their little bubble a bit. Amazingly, it works; Draco’s hold on him relaxes enough to let him breathe without letting go completely. Good, Harry would hate that.

“I feared that, had I said I didn’t want to meet your friends, you would get angry. And then we would have fought and, let’s be honest, our relationship can’t withstand that kind of fight. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to risk losing this.” The confession comes much easier over Draco’s lips, now that he is sure Harry isn’t going to leave him.

Ironically, this time Harry really does have the urge to let go, if only to shake some sense into Draco. He doesn’t. The urge to hold Draco close is stronger, even if his mind works in endlessly winding ways that Harry will never understand.

It takes another moment for the implication of what Draco said to sink in through Harry’s contentment.

“You can tell me no, you know? Draco you need to tell me if there is something you don’t want to do.” The words might have come out more forceful than Harry intended, too aggressive in this place of peaceful acceptance, but this is _important_. What kind of marriage do they lead, where Draco can’t trust him and goes along with everything Harry wants because he is too scared of losing the good parts to speak up?

Draco doesn’t answer, but he does tense up again. Right, there is more then. More Draco didn’t dare tell Harry, that he certainly won’t tell him now either.

Perhaps it’s better this way, Harry is exhausted and he didn’t even _start_ dealing with any of the things he learnt in this brief conversation. There is no way he could handle more, not without some respite to coordinate his thoughts to his feelings.

“You never had a problem with telling me when I didn’t measure up to your standards,” Harry says and immediately wishes he could take it back. He wanted to say something fun, something to lighten the mood and make Draco relax again. Dredging up bitter memories might not be the best way to achieve that, especially not with their mental states so … vulnerable.

“Yes well, back then I had nothing to lose, did I?” Draco’s tone is back to his usual self, his smile pressed against Harry’s neck, aptly hidden under a layer of bite to his words. Harry doesn’t bother hiding his own, embarrassingly sappy smile.

He also doesn’t stop the urge to drop a kiss onto Draco’s head, because as reaffirming a hug may be, some things are nice to hear and if Harry already struggles putting it into words, disguised with insinuations or charmingly blunt, the least he can do is show Draco in some other way.

Draco nudges his nose up a bit in response, burrows himself deeper, and Harry takes that to mean that Draco understood what he tried to say.


	15. Chapter 15

“I still don’t understand why we have to sneak in here. I thought you said you had a good relationship with your parents?” Harry makes enough noise to wake the dead, moving with all the grace of a stumbling fawn. It would be more entertaining if Draco didn’t have very good reasons for the secrecy. 

Harry doesn’t understand the importance of going undetected, strangely _eager_ to meet Draco’s parents and only following Draco’s request for discretion with great reluctance. Draco isn’t certain if that stems from previously hidden sadistic urges or the desperate happiness with which he clings to the general concept of family. Either way, it’s inconvenient for Draco. He does _not_ want Harry and his parents to meet, ever, if at all possible. 

It's not possible, of course. His father might have shuffled his priorities beyond recognition, but his mother is still as predictable as she ever was. Which is to say not predictable at all, she is far too clever for that, but Draco has a good grip on what is important to her and what she is willing to do for it. His happiness is important to her, and she already proved that she would be willing to do anything to get him there; interrogating their official hero and saviour is probably already neatly scheduled in her calender. There is no way around that, Draco can't reassure her from afar that he is happy as reasonably feasible, and so it’s only a question of time until they have to face her, but Draco would rather postpone for as long as she allows it. 

It’s not that Draco thinks his mother would find Harry lacking — _saviour of the wizarding world_ , what more could you want? — but he rather feels that whatever peace they found for themselves, this strange contentment laying in the air, it won’t hold up to scrutiny. His mother would ask questions, the hard ones usually avoided because no one knows how to answer them, and she would inspect the very foundation of their life, would take it up and turn it on its head, shake it and rattle it and see what comes crashing out, the nitty-gritty stuff purposefully sequestered out of sight. 

Draco isn’t ready to let her burst his naive little bubble. 

“Potter, if you can’t keep quiet I will leave you behind.” Draco wouldn’t, but threatening Harry into silence is far more efficient than laying out his reasoning. It also seems far more appropriate to their crouched position behind the Manors hedges. 

The whole thing is highly undignified, the plan insipid and barely deserving of being called a plan. Draco will deny any involvement in it until his dying day. He only contributed the Manor’s layout, anyway. Surely that doesn’t count? 

Then again, even if that wasn’t enough to condemn him, Draco also trusted Harry to come up with the best tactic to get access to his room, pack whatever speaks to him at the moment (Draco has prepared a list, something else he will deny because Harry caught one glance at it and laughed, claiming that this kind of decisions can’t be made on paper but needs to be done in person, speaking judgement when rational thoughts are drowned out by sentimentality) and get them back out smoothly, without his parents being the wiser for it. 

Harry had assured him that he could come up with a strategy, no problem. Draco should have known better. _Gryffindors_ , they don’t plan anything, much less something involving subtlety. It must be the hero-complex — why do something with no one knowing? Who is supposed to applaud? Draco should have expected Harry would off-handedly discard that tiny, crucial word discretion. 

Draco does objectively carry some blame, loath as he is to admit it. 

“You can’t leave me behind, I'm the one who made the plan,” Harry protests, though he is much quieter in it than before. Draco counts that as a success. 

“Your precious _plan_ forgot to account for —” Draco abruptly falls silent, spelling Harry’s mouth shut for good measure. 

There is someone here, close and humming and coming closer as the humming grows louder. Harry hears it too, protestations about his temporary muteness dying before he fully expressed them, his attention focused on listening. 

There shouldn't be anyone here, not in this part of the gardens, exposed to the merciless sun and thus more used for the occasional evening stroll. In theory, at least, although his parents haven’t set foot in this part of the estate for more years than Draco is old. And yet someone is here, bustling about the garden and maintaining the illusion of civilisation, humming that song that echoes in Draco's mind in familiar waves. Draco _knows_ that song and he knows the voice too, he just can’t _place_ it and it’s driving him _insane_ , the answer _almost_ at the tip of his tongue but he can’t quite — his father. 

The thought is suddenly there, clear and bright in his mind gone silent. Lucius Malfoy, humming and working in the gardens, not for prestige or appearance but because he genuinely enjoys it. He is _humming_ , the same songs he used to sing to Draco when he couldn’t sleep. Draco can’t wrap his brain around the thought. 

“I think your dad is patting the trees.” Harry's unexpected words (perhaps Draco should have known Harry would free himself of the spell in a matter of minutes, he has an annoying aversion against doing as he is told)startle Draco so viciously that he almost stumbles through the hedge; which would not only be humiliating and dreadfully tear his clothes, but also give away their position. Draco would have to find an excuse for being here, _somehow_ make sure Harry stays hidden during that and then be dragged in to meet his mother and explain to her why he was creeping through the hedges like an unshaven bandit. Draco would rather avoid that. 

Instead of letting gravity drag him into the light, Draco flails and clings to Harry. It seems like a brilliant idea for all but one victorious moment, when Harry loses his balance and they are both falling. 

If Draco thought the crouching and squabbling over their next step was undignified, he doesn’t even have a word for how far from propriety _this_ is. 

Draco can spare a few thoughts to be grateful the hedges serve as separation between the, mostly unused, garden and the endless vastness that is Wiltshire, that there is nothing for them to have fallen onto expect the very same land simply going by another name. He supposes that makes their crouching and hovering close to each other somewhat unnecessary, but Harry had insisted it would dramatically influence the mood, which is a crucial point to success, and Draco didn’t think of objections quick enough — it doesn’t matter. Draco is trying hard to distract himself from the real issue, when the solving would be so very easy, much easier than assigning guilt. 

The real problem is this: when two bodies that hold on to each other fall to the ground, it’s logically inevitable that they should land in a similar state to how they fell, closely connected and touching. Harry and Draco did. They landed in a mess of limbs and with no coordination to speak of, Draco lying fully on top of Harry, who is blinking up at him, arms tight around Draco’s ribs and pulling him further down, closer. His eyes are wide, and there is something suggestive in the curve of his lip, in the way his hands start moving over Draco. 

It only makes sense, and if anything Draco should be shocked at the timing, not the fact. They might have been sharing a bed, sleeping ever closer and entwined with each other, but Harry didn’t … do anything, didn’t cross any boundaries Draco would have preferred they stay far away from. It was unsettling at first, Draco constantly on edge and waiting for the other shoe to drop, but things remained pleasantly un-marital. Draco had begun to relax into it, to let go of the constant worry of what things might progress into. And now he pays the price for his carelessness. 

Still, despite how long Harry has been denying himself, there is a question here. Harry is _asking_ Draco, if this is alright with him, if he is on board with this happening. It’s so very Harry, always asking Draco, doing his best to ignite that fire that Draco has only ever heard about. He is never successful, but Draco never says no. 

This is different. They aren't in their bed, or even their house. They are on some unnamed land in Wiltshire, basically his parents’ house and grounds, and Draco is more reviled by the idea than he usually is. For the first time, he has a proper reason to put a stop to things, to back away from Harry and get his hands off of him. Surely Harry will accept that, that Draco can’t bear to allow him anything _here_? Not only are his parents close by (Draco isn't sure if that is a blessing or a curse) but they are also lying in the dirt, outside in the wilderness for anyone to see. 

There is absolutely no reason Harry could object to Draco withdrawing. He does look disappointed however, only letting Draco go with great reluctance after instinctual tightening his grip at Draco’s first move into what he deemed the wrong direction. Well, Harry will have to deal with that then, Draco is well within his rights here. (More likely _Draco_ will have to deal with that, when they are back home and Draco doesn’t have the excuse of propriety anymore, but that is a problem for later. There is nothing he can do about it at this moment anyway.) 

Not dwelling on that frightening prospective further, Draco pulls them both up and creates some distance too, for good measure. They had a purpose in coming here, and it wasn’t to experience the fresh air . 

“Let’s get on with this, I know how we get in.” Draco is the one giving orders now, as he should have been from the start. He’ll never let Harry plan anything again, this was a disaster. 

In the end, it’s all rather simple. If his father is out in the gardens being the stranger Draco is reluctant to get to know, that means his study is empty. Which, in turn, means that Draco can finally make use of the secret door he painfully carved into the wards. 

In a flash of utter brilliance at a very young age, Draco decided that he would need a secret door to escape the house and the oppressive force of his parents when he would grow to be a rebellious teenager. Obviously that never quite happened. Whether that is to blame on the war or Draco’s lack of initiative isn’t quite certain, but the door is there in any case. 

Draco never got to use it, not even when he desperately needed a way out of that house, because in his child's mind it made only sense to install that secret in his father’s study, the room where he basically spent all his time and that was seldom empty and free for mischief. That isn’t how Draco used to see it, picking it because of its excellent view into the gardens. In hindsight that is another draw back, not an advantage, because Draco would have to walk through these gardens, easily monitored. But Draco wanted to run out into the garden and so that is where the door needed to be. And there it still stands, undetected and unused for years. 

Harry allows himself to be dragged through the gardens, even politely cast the concealment charm for them, and Draco tells him the whole embarrassing tale. Mostly he needs something to fill the silence that could have quickly grown uncomfortable, people don’t usually take kindly to being denied. 

Draco also quite likes the small smile playing on Harry’s face, absent-minded and listening to Draco’s exploits and adventures in these gardens. He doesn't think he will ever get used to this, the simple pleasure of making Harry smile. 

Then they are at the door, the wards open for Draco, and before Harry can gather his thoughts enough to demand an audience with his mother, Draco pulls them through the corridors and staircases to his room. He already had one too many close encounters today, he doesn’t need another one. 

Draco leads him through the house, gesturing to the portraits and explaining whatever information was instilled into him, fully aware that neither of them cares or even pays attention. It’s odd, being here with Harry who doesn’t connect anything but _bad_ things to these walls. 

For Harry, this is where he and his friends were captured. This is where Granger was tortured and mutilated and where he was reduced to shouting himself hoarse in his insignificant fear and fury. This is where his friend died, pierced by a dagger for daring to rescue them. 

For Draco, things are more complicated. 

(Draco sometimes feels _everything_ is more complicated for him, the almost enviable talent to neatly divide the world into black and white, right and wrong, missing in Draco when Harry never had a problem wielding it, casting judgement and condemning from his high seat as Golden Boy. That is neither here nor there, however, and Draco ought to let go of that old bitterness, it only festers and twists until you no longer recognise the hateful person in the mirror, staring back at you with open disgust.) 

This is where Draco was held captive, where he saw pain and suffering and death, where he learnt the real meaning of fear. 

This is also where Draco first flew. This is where his mother taught him all the names of the flowers in their garden and where his father showed him how to gain the peacocks respect and trust. 

This is where Draco and Pansy squeezed themselves into hidden corners and whispered of secrets and dreams, where he learnt to read and convinced Theo that climbing bookshelves was a perfectly acceptable method of reaching books they weren't tall enough to touch otherwise. This is where he met Blaise, snooping through his things and held them an impromptu tea party, after making sure everyone was on their best behaviour and dressed in their finest clothes. 

This is where Draco loved to return to every summer. 

This is home. 

Draco doesn’t dwell on that, can’t afford to, if he wants to avoid having a Talk — for someone so dreadful at talking and emotions, Harry does insist on doing a surprising amount of it — and get through this operation smoothly. They ought to talk about this, about the war and their respective roles in it, at some indefinite point in the future, but not here, not now. They have been doing well on Not Talking about Things, mostly, only discussed what was absolutely necessary to to satisfy Grimmauld, and Draco has no intention of shaking that balance of acknowledgement and denial over events that are best forgotten. 

So he tells Harry of the portraits, of the carpet his father had a huge fight over with the salesperson and what the ornaments along the walls mean. It’s a distraction, for Draco as much as for Harry, something else to think about instead of the huge gaping abyss separating them. They did well ignoring it, but it is more pronounced here than it was before. Their history, the bloody pages of rivalry and terror is easily avoided in Grimmauld but not here, where it is bound into the walls. Grimmauld they made new, made theirs, free of old expectations. 

Or perhaps that’s just Draco. Perhaps Harry doesn’t think about any of that. Either way, Draco talks and he points, he tries his best not to think about all the reasons this shouldn't work, can’t for much longer and is doomed to fail when he least expects it. 

And then they are there, Draco’s childhood bedroom, the door unchanged through all the years, and Draco breathes a sigh of relief as he pushes them both into the room. 

He feels safe once the door is closed. It’s not _logical_ , the door isn’t even locked, but he does. This has always been Draco's sanctuary, protected him even those nights when he was sure it was only a matter of time until there would be someone at the door, that it would open and the room would be sullied, tainted. It never happened, though, no matter how much Draco was shaking and how convinced he was that _someone_ would come in, it never did. This room is _safe_ , and Draco is once again acutely grateful for it. 

The original plan was to ask Harry to wait outside, on the other side of the door. Harry wasn’t supposed to come in here, stand in the middle of Draco's room and look around with wide eyes. Quite frankly, the only reason Draco brought him along is because Harry looked distraught when Draco hinted that he might want to go alone, take some time to evaluate in the privacy of his own company. He figured he could allow Harry to carry the boxes, if it would make him happy. And it did indeed make him happy, his whole face lightening up as if he never knew anything but joy. It was all a bit unfair — how is Draco supposed to ever deny this man anything? 

And now here they are, Harry itching to touch and explore and Draco wishing desperately they would have met his mother after all and Harry were a safe distance away, politely drinking tea. Draco … he doesn’t quite know what to do in this situation. 

See, Draco always liked showing off his room. He liked introducing his friends to Capt'n and _her_ friends, liked making them sit down for tea and show them all the amazing things he collected and prided himself in. This should be easy, familiar territory. He even knows exactly what he would show Harry, which books he would take out of the shelf and which cup Harry would be allowed to drink his tea out of. Draco should be able to do this. 

But Harry, well, Harry has never been normal, never _easy_ for Draco to deal with, has he? They would hardly be in this situation if Harry would, just once, behave like any of the people Draco usually surrounds himself with. Draco doesn't know how Harry would react. 

That’s the crux of the thing. Draco can’t judge if Harry is seconds away from laughing at him, if he is the kind to cast off all ties to childhood the moment he turned 17 and will belittle Draco for treating his own ties differently. 

Draco couldn’t stand for Harry to laugh at him. Harry might not realise it, but he holds the key to Draco’s most treasured memories. This is where Draco grew up, where he discovered the world and hid from it in. This is _private_ , not something shared lightly after all they went through, once they were not carefree children anymore. Draco himself didn’t realise how intimate showing Potter his room would be, how scared of rejection he would feel, surrounded by knowledge that isn’t secret but might as well be, for how many people know this side of Draco. 

_This_ is why Harry was meant to stay outside. Draco isn't prepared for any of this, because Harry still hasn’t said anything and he must have made up his own thoughts on how Draco’s room should look and this can’t be it because Harry simply doesn’t actually know Draco but now he saw something and he is going to laugh — 

Harry doesn’t laugh. Draco doesn’t know _what_ kind of sound he makes, something croaked and punched out and not intentional, but it’s not a laugh. It’s more reverent, awed. 

This is … this is odd. Honestly, Draco would have sooner expected him to laugh than be impressed beyond words (and the more time passes without Harry whirling around to ridicule him, Draco realises how unlikely that was to happen). Objectively, it’s only a room, with books and toys and a bed, nothing that warrants speechless astonishment. Not that it doesn’t flatter Draco’s ego, he gladly takes Harry’s silence as a compliment. 

But there is more, something isn’t quite right here, something in the way Harry treats the most basic of Draco’s furniture, that alludes to a truth Draco only ever heard in whispered gossip. A truth of cruel muggle relatives, of tiny rooms and not enough food. Draco thought it was nothing but sensationalism, something to explain the scrawny figure of their hero. He spread a few rumours himself, something — in hindsight rather uninspired — about a torture chamber in the Potter mansion, but they were _rumours_ , not even half of it true. They have to be. 

Draco desperately wants to know. Except how he doesn’t want to know and he can’t exactly _ask_ because that would be _rude_ and tactless. He knows better than dragging up painful memories in other people, especially when there is no conceivable gain for him besides childish curiosity stilled. Furthermore, literally experiencing, right this moment, how it feels to have boundaries torn down that you might have liked to keep up a little longer, Draco should think twice about doing the same to someone else. 

On the other hand, Draco has long since made peace with the fact that his curiosity will be the downfall of him. He is curious to a fault, will ask the wrong question to the wrong person at the wrong time and that will be that. Draco is alright with that. 

And finally, humility doesn’t suit him. Never did, it’s painful and cumbersome and makes things more difficult where they were so easy before. It makes _vulnerable_ , which is about the last thing Draco ever wanted to be. He doesn’t _like_ it, and there is one temptingly easy way out of it. 

“You look like you never saw a room bigger than a broom closet before.” Infused with exactly the right amount of taunting and arrogance, the words snap Harry out of his thoughts. 

Draco gets one look at the pain on Harry's face and he immediately feels bad. 

“No, I haven't,” Harry answers, not missing a beat and looking him dead in the eyes, tone so dry Draco thinks he must be joking. Surely he must be joking? “Not before Hogwarts, at any rate, and never meant for me.” 

Harry doesn’t look away, fixing Draco with these eyes piercing through him, pinning him up in the air like an insect about to be dissected. Draco still doesn’t know if he is joking. 

“The people I grew up with were cruel and hateful and they locked me into the smallest room they could find because they didn’t want to deal with me. All the toys I had were a few tin soldiers they must have forgotten to clean out before they moved me in. Meanwhile my cousin got all the toys and games he could pick out of the catalogues, with the sole purpose of destroying and hoarding them.” Harry isn’t joking. His voice is threaded with steel, something hard and unyielding in the facts he presents as dispassionately as if it isn’t real, a mere possibility for some hypothetical creature, daring Draco to pity him for the way he grew up. 

The implications couldn’t be clearer if Harry had spoken them aloud. 

First, Draco is a wanker for not only bringing it up, but the way he brought it up, too. Fair enough, Draco knew that before he opened his mouth. Draco didn't know how very much he would wish to take the words back, no, but he did know he shouldn’t say them. 

Second, Draco is the cousin. Draco grew up in thoughtless splendour, given things with a reckless abandon and no thought to there ever being something he couldn’t have while Harry existed only in what was denied to him. 

There is nothing Draco can really say to that. He knows what he _should_ say — apologies, mostly, perhaps something clever and insightful for comfort — but the words feel too big in his mouth, heavy. The silence is pulled tight between them, tangible and ready to burst and Draco cannot say a single thing. 

Maybe that’s best, maybe this is Harry’s silence to break. He is the one who created it, after all, even though he seems less affected by what he revealed than Draco feels. This isn't Draco’s place to say something, to impose even more where he doesn’t belong. (One might point out that this is still _his_ room, that if anyone, _Harry_ is the one who doesn’t belong, but Draco thinks that kind of reasoning might be part of the problem. Insisting on it definitely wouldn’t help.) 

“Look, I’m sorry,” Harry starts, and that is all _wrong_. Harry isn’t the one who should apologise, isn’t the one who lashed out because he was feeling insecure and wanted to force the conversation away from himself at all cost. A conversation Draco is now absolutely sure _should not have happened_. Harry is not the one who should be sorry; _Draco_ is. 

“Don’t apologise!” Harry immediately falls silent, more out of shock than compliance with Draco’s — pretty harsh, he didn’t mean to be so austere — but Draco will take it, before Harry does more than glare in indignation and he lost his chance. “You don’t have to apologise, I mean. You did nothing wrong, I —” 

Draco can’t say it, doesn’t get the words out despite knowing he _should_ , that he has to. 

Malfoys don’t apologise, his father taught him. It’s a sign of weakness and indecisiveness and it is the beginning of the end. When you start apologising you might just as well start digging your grave, for surely you will need it soon. In this world appearance is what matters, who you are is determined by how you present yourself. Those who apologise, who admit to mistakes, well, those are prone to changing their mind, to being swayed and persuaded and manipulated. You don’t want to be a pawn in someone else’s game, do you? 

Malfoys don’t apologise, that is just how it is. But Draco, seeing how he married, isn’t a Malfoy anymore, is he? Not in name, at least, and names are ever so important. Names bind blood when clung to with enough conviction. And Draco always looked to his name to see who he is. Why stop that now? 

Malfoys don’t apologise, but Blacks might. If they did wrong, if they need to, if they hurt someone they care about. 

“I —” Draco can’t. Resolving that he is freed from his family responsibility of being imperious and unmoved is all well and good, fantastic, but it doesn't erase the instincts instilled into him, doesn't make his first reaction any more favourable. 

Apologies don’t come easy to Draco, nothing but the guilt laying heavy in his gut and the words waiting just out of reach. Perhaps they aren't supposed to be easy, perhaps this is how they are for everyone. 

Draco doesn’t like them, even if this is indeed how they are done, this stammering and flailing and the constant ache to _fix_ what he broke — this is torture. Draco doesn’t want to come into a position where he needs to apologise ever again. 

Which doesn’t resolve him from needing to deliver this one. 

“I apologise.” There, that wasn’t so difficult. Draco means the words, fully aware that they sound like a cheap trinket given when you couldn’t care less but it would look bad to do nothing. Draco _means_ them, and though they feel horribly insufficient they are all he has. 

They aren’t enough for Harry. That is fair, they wouldn’t have been enough for Draco either, were there roles exchanged. 

Oh how Draco wishes that there roles were exchanged, Harry is likely much better at this apology thing than Draco is. On second thought, maybe not. He doesn’t think that Harry, in his position a hero and saviour, ever needed to apologise for anything. 

No sooner has Draco thought that than he is grateful that he didn't say _that_ one out loud, too. This kind of thinking is exactly what got them here, and it certainly won’t lead them out. 

Draco is sure there is a protocol for this situation, when pride forbids you from doing what you know to be right — no, it’s not _pride_. Draco is very familiar with pride and its treacherous falls, but this doesn’t feel like pride. If Draco knew the right words, he would speak them in a heartbeat. 

Could Draco possibly get a week to prepare? He would ask Pansy, ask Theo after that because Pansy’s advice is highly likely to be inappropriate — Draco would do much better with some time to consider this.

But Harry doesn’t grant him time, nothing more than what he already allowed. If Draco could judge this situation objectively, he would probably agree that he had plenty of time to come up with _something_ , enough time to give Harry at least an attempt of an apology. As it is, Draco has nothing, his brain terrifyingly blank as Harry turns away and he needs to say something _now_ — 

“You can hold Capt'n, if you want!” Draco bursts out, one last desperate attempt at making this right. He doesn't even think about the words before they are out, loud and heavy between them. 

Draco should have considered that offer better. 

For one, Draco isn’t fond of people touching Capt'n. That is the whole idea behind the gamble, sacrificing the very thing Draco sought to protect so viscously. It’s quite poetic, if you think about it, and Draco has no doubt that it would be a good Grand Gesture in a story, something sappy and ridiculous. 

That’s the next thing — it’s completely ridiculous. There is no way this could work. Harry doesn’t know that Capt'n Isn't To Be Touched, doesn’t know what set Draco off to begin with, and Draco seriously doubts Harry reads enough silly romantic novels to understand the importance seemingly stupid gestures can hold. To Harry it will be just plain stupid and they will — Draco doesn't know what they will do, the consequences of his cowardice, but he won’t like it. 

The decent thing to do would be to accept that as his own fault, to hold his head high through whatever Harry deems necessary even if it isn’t intended as punishment. 

Draco doesn't care about being decent. Draco doesn't want things to change, because he _liked_ how things were. He doesn’t want Harry to hate Draco again, doesn’t want Harry to expect him to snap and bite at any tiny thing he might not like. 

It’s too late for that now. Whatever they worked their way into, the fragile peace they build, Draco shattered it all quite effectively. It wouldn’t have been all that bad, had he not gone back and tried in vain to fix it. Draco should have accepted Harry’s apology, should have felt awful and torn up about it and he could have dedicated his life to never letting it happen again, to never let Harry look like he did in that moment. 

Now the best he can offer is an old toy and a silent vow to do better next time, to learn how to apologise properly to Harry. 

“I would like that,” Harry says. He smiles, small and tentative and a bit wobbly but it’s charming and Draco — why is Harry smiling? 

Harry isn’t supposed to smile. Harry is supposed to say something cutting, something about Draco’s lack of basic human decency and social skills, and then he is supposed to leave. Why is Harry smiling? 

“I … yes, of course, right this way.” Draco navigates them on autopilot, mind whirring and circling around that smile, warm and sincere and out of place on a face that should be consumed by disgust. 

Harry doesn’t say anything illumining either, he just follows Draco’s lead. How come he only ever does that when Draco himself doesn’t know where he is going? 

Thankfully Draco’s room isn’t as large for two adults running to escape the silence as it was for a small boy, imagining it to be the whole world, and they soon reach the bookshelves. Or is this a bad thing? Draco isn’t sure anymore, but there is no way back. He made more than sure of that. 

Throwing one last glance over his shoulder at Harry (that odd half-smile is still tugging at his lips, far more reassuring than it should it be) Draco reaches out for the book. He hopes Harry appreciates how easy it would be for him to remember the book and the hidden passage, Draco doesn’t show this to just _anyone_ after all. In fact, Draco _never_ showed anyone. 

That isn’t to say that no one knows about his secret; his friends know for sure because they are horrible snoops with no understanding of boundaries, and Draco is pretty sure his parents felt the distortion in the wards, but Draco never _invited_ anyone in here. No one except Harry. 

Before he can change his mind and try to erase Harry’s memory in panic, Draco pushes the shelf aside and gestures Harry through, pulling the door closed behind them. 


	16. Chapter 16

At first glance, the hidden corner is much like the main part of Draco's room. There are more books, of course, though you wouldn’t know these are the ones closest to Draco’s heart, dearer even than the ones neatly lined up in the bookshelves of his room and especially than those in the library. There are pictures and souvenirs and _stories_ , but nothing remarkable in and off itself, nothing with huge material value. 

Logically, locking them away here is the only thing that betrays how immensely precious these things are to Draco. If he wanted to hide them, it would be smarter to mix them under his normal things, conceal them under the cover of triviality where no one would think to look for them. Draco had a lengthy debate with Theo about that one day, after Theo proved his system inadequate by finding the hidden room and Draco’s most private secrets. Secrets Draco already willingly shared because he is a trusting fool when it comes to his friends, but he thought to at least keep their location safe. 

Of course, Draco then had to scour Theo’s room to find _his_ secrets. Draco searched _everything_ , every nook and cranny, all in vain. He was forced to concede that even knowing the secret he didn’t find the object connected to it, Theo got to feel smug and then they had ice cream. Draco blames the ice cream for overshadowing the lesson he should have learnt that day, leaving all his secrets collected in one room. Except when he thanks the ice cream, because they also amount to his favourite place to be in. 

Sometimes Harry proves in the most uncanny ways how well they have gotten to know each other since their ill-advised idea to marry; him walking straight up to Capt'n and gently taking her from her treasure trove of books and sparkly stones is one of these moments. 

“You aren’t supposed to touch Capt'n,” Draco says, because it’s true and just because Harry seems to be the exception to every rule Draco ever had, doesn’t mean he shouldn't know. Draco would have allowed Harry to hold her eventually — did in fact already promise him the privilege as part of his apology, though the very real physical implications of that promise didn’t hit before Draco saw Harry _touching Capt'n_ — but usually it’s considered polite to do introductions first. That also would have ensured Harry treat Draco’s beloved dragon with the appropriate care and reverence, but the veiled warning isn’t necessary. Good for Harry, things would not have ended well for him otherwise. 

“Oh, I'm sorry! I thought you said — but I can put them back —” Harry moves to set Capt'n back into her rightful place. If Draco needed any further proof that Capt'n is in good hands with Harry, this readiness to comply with Draco’s wishes would have been it. 

“It’s alright, you already woke her so you might as well make it count. I also did say you could, so …” Draco meant for his words to be reassuring and dispel the awkwardness encroaching on them, but if anything Harry looks more conflicted. Draco used to be better at this. 

Perhaps he should have kept to his tried and tested formula, that worked well enough for him in the past. Draco wouldn’t have showed Harry his secret sanctuary, not on his very first visit, but would have kept them to the main room. He would have showed Harry the collection of antiquities that intrigued him enough to talk his parents into buying them to be displayed on his shelves, neatly labelled and meticulously examined and catalogued. There would have been other toys to meet and possibly, if Harry were to indulge him, tea to drink from the good china reserved for special occasions. He might even have told Harry some stories, memories of what happened here and secrets like the giant splash of blue paint covered by a portrait of the last dodo. 

Draco would have politely asked Harry to wait outside while he packed up some stuff to take with them and then he would have pressed all his most treasured secrets into Harry’s arms, protected by a thin but inscrutable layer of cardboard. 

That was the plan, brag about his splendour and make Harry carry the boxes, simple. Why couldn’t Draco keep to the plan? 

Because Harry deserves better, something more personal. 

Because Draco _wanted_ to show Harry, because he wanted him to know, to share this part of himself with Harry. 

He didn’t expect it would be this difficult. 

“I could —” Draco starts, about to offer _something —_ introductions, perhaps — showing Harry how Capt'n likes to be petted, but Harry has similar ideas of overcoming the uncomfortable silence by filling it with words and they both start talking at the same time. 

“Should I —” Harry still holds Capt'n high in the air, caught between holding her as per Draco’s reaffirmed permission and setting her back down as Draco implied he ought to do. 

Draco doesn’t know for sure what happens next, how they end up stumbled over each other, but he does have a good idea what it logically must have been. 

Draco was reaching for Capt'n, that much he knows, because there was no need for Harry to put her away and Draco wanted to hold her, too. But Harry is taller than Draco remembered (which is entirely to blame on Draco’s slight difficulties with accepting the fact that Harry is taller than him, ever since they haven't been together at Hogwarts anymore and Harry shot up to rob Draco of his height advantage) and Draco misjudged the distance so his balance was off and he must have fallen. Fallen directly onto Harry, who didn’t expect that he would need to catch Draco and only had one arm to do so because the other was holding Capt'n, which can’t have helped _his_ balance either — whatever exactly happened, they both stumbled and landed in one of the bean chairs Draco loves but isn’t allowed to keep in his room because they make dignified sitting impossible. 

This, more or less, must be how they landed here, stumbled into one, little elegant heap and both their hearts beating loudly, breath coming quickly. It’s rather comfortable, all told. But then, Draco landed Harry, not the chair, and he has to imagine his fall was far more soft than Harry’s, if only for the fact that Draco didn’t have to cushion someone else. Draco is comfortable, Harry’s arms around him in his failed attempt to catch him and keep them from losing their balance, his head resting on Harry’s chest. 

Harry is far less comfortable, as the pained moan he makes proves. Draco feels a bit bad for him, he should probably try and get off, now that the danger happened and passed, but he also doesn’t really want to. Somehow, miraculously, this is far less tense than any other moment since they entered Draco’s rooms. He doesn't want to go back to that tense mess. 

“Are you alright,” Draco asks, telling himself that he will move and get up should Harry not be okay with staying like this. 

“No, This hurt unfairly much considering we fell into the only chair you have here and it could have been much worse.” Harry doesn’t sound too good, clenching his teeth against the ache. 

Draco suppresses a sigh. Harry not feeling well means he has to move. Not only did he decide that was the decent thing to do but he also genuinely doesn’t want to hurt Harry any more than he already did, even if the physicality of the pain might be considered a nice change in pace. Harry probably doesn’t appreciate that view on it. 

“Right, okay, let me just,” Draco pulls his hands out from where they landed under Harry and makes to brace himself on the chair around Harry (because leaning on Harry to get up would defeat the purpose, though it sounds far more appealing), only for his hand to sink into the soft material of the beanbag causing Draco to fall once more. 

Right, Draco forgot about that. 

Harry makes some kind of noise — is that a chuckle? Is he _laughing_ at Draco’s attempt to alleviate his discomfort? Unbelievable. Just to prove him wrong — and perhaps a tiny bit to stand victoriously over him — Draco tries again. He is smarter about it this time, chooses a spot where the material is full and solid with nowhere to escape to avoid a third fall. There aren’t all that many of these places, most of them malleable and giving ground under one stern look, but — there is a perfect place, right next to Harry’s head. 

If Draco can reach that one, push up with his hand holding him steady — the bag suddenly disappears under his hand and Draco falls. 

Draco catches himself on his forearms a mere moment before he would have crashed into Harry, who is full on laughing at him now. Smug bastard, Draco would like to see him do better than that. The beanbag is obviously treacherous and holds a grudge against Draco because … because it’s been too long since he was here and sat in it! Yes, that is the story Draco is going with. 

Not that Harry asked, laughing and uncaring of the fact that Draco exerted considerable efforts not to fall directly onto him, _again_. Actually, no, it was _Harry_ who dragged them down first, because he was holding — Capt'n! Draco hasn’t seen her at all since the world shifted, and there is only one possible explanation for that, growing bigger and more horrifying with every second that Draco doesn’t have clear confirmation. 

“Harry,” Draco makes sure that his voice is serious, grave, and Harry immediately stops laughing, looking up at him with his impossibly green eyes. It’s a good thing Draco has Capt'n to worry about, or he would have gotten lost in those eyes. “Are you laying on Capt'n?” 

Harry is completely still for one moment, condemning still, and Draco can almost hear the sheepish admission — Harry laughs again. Draco doesn’t know if that is a good sign. 

“If you are laughing because you squashed my dragon and think this is all a grand hoot—” 

“Merlin, Draco! The Captain is fine, don’t worry about it. Wait a sec,” Harry reaches for something, which Draco regrettably can’t see because he is busy glaring at Harry (or rather, marvelling at the expression of concentration on his face, the little frown and the way he bites his lip — it’s all terribly endearing, don’t tell Pansy he said that). 

A brief expression of triumph flickers over Harry’s face, but before Draco has any chance to properly savour that expression, Capt'n is shoved between him and Harry, obscuring his view. Draco admits to being somewhat disappointed to lose the front row seat to Harry’s emotions like that. But he also rather does like knowing his dragon is safe and not being either squashed by them or laying abandoned on the floor. 

Just when Draco managed to convince himself that Capt'n against Harry is a pretty good switch, Capt'n is yanked away and Harry grins up at him. “Also, did you really just say hoot?” 

Draco … did say that, yes. He doesn’t appreciate being laughed at for it but he also doesn’t have a good excuse, after he established that Capt'n is fine Draco does the only reasonable thing you can do when everything went horribly wrong and things are somehow still brilliantly well and you don’t know what to do anymore for fear of tipping that fragile balance to the wrong side: Draco goes back to hiding his face in Harry’s neck. 

It’s not a mature or responsible thing to do, Draco is well aware that he should pick up on his tour guide duties and show Harry the rest of his room, then start to pack some boxes, but he really doesn’t want to do that. Besides, plenty of mature and responsible people hid behind Harry for almost two decades before Harry killed the evil maniac. They brandished him about as proof that terror was truly vanquished and sold him as a bright story to forget about their fear and grief, and when _he_ came back and they couldn’t deny it anymore no matter how loud they laughed, they pushed Harry to be the first in line, to be either their hero or sacrifice. 

Draco figures it’s more than fair that he hides, too. Harry is a very good person to hide behind, very accommodating aside from the low chuckle that Draco is content to ignore. 

“It’s Capt'n.” Draco says, because the silence is getting a little too comfortable, and Draco could stay like this for far longer than he dares to admit, even to himself. 

“Sorry?” 

“It’s Capt'n, you said Captain.” Sure, it’s not a grand distinction, but it is one nonetheless. 

“Ah, sorry about that, Capt'n.” Draco can’t see him, but he can hear the tiny smile in Harry’s voice. 

Draco doesn’t _have_ to say more to that. He pointed out that there is a difference and that he won’t tolerate Harry misnaming his dragon, he doesn’t need to share the details on the name. But Draco doesn’t want to only take from Harry, to use him like he has been used all his life. Harry deserves better than that, and Draco does have more to give him. 

“It _used_ to be Captain, after the dragon rider I mentioned, but also because dragons like the water. Capt'n couldn’t swim, though, and so she would obviously need a ship to travel it. Hership, where she would be the captain and travel by the stars. A brilliant idea, of course, I immediately committed to the name. However, I was rather small and struggled with proper enunciation. I … I had the unfortunate tendency to smudge my words together, so I had to undertake some name changes.” It took Draco quite some time to admit that he would need more care and precision to live up to Captain than he was willing to spare, stubborn pride making him want to just say it right without investing any of the time necessary for complete mastery of it, and that it would be much more reasonable to make concessions on the name and spend his time playing with Capt'n instead of brooding over naming her. 

“You are nothing like Dudley, you know.” Harry says it like it’s a miracle, a revelation. Draco wonders how long Harry compared the two of them. “I thought you were, because you look the same from the outside, but you are not. 

“Dudley always got everything he wanted, even if he had to throw a tantrum to get it, shed a few fake tears. Dudley got it and all I ever got was to watch as he broke it. I told myself that it didn't matter, that things would get better once I could get away from them, but I guess it did matter more than I wanted to admit to myself. Although things did get better — one of the very first things I wanted to buy once I had my own money was a _golden cauldron_ , for Godric’s sake! I think I was overcompensating, trying to catch up with Dudley and, just this one time, I wanted to have something that he could never have, no matter how loud he cried.” Harry’s voice sounds far off, lost in contemplation of a horror Draco cannot begin to comprehend. He doesn't know what it feels like to be denied what he wants, not in the way Harry suffered. 

“Then I met you. It was in Madam Malkin’s, the first clothes I got that weren't hand me downs from Dudley, clothes that didn’t only fit properly but were _made for me_. You were bored with that, used to this miraculous, wonderful new world I somehow stumbled into. You belonged in ways I feared I never would. I wanted to know what you were talking about, wanted to say something clever and funny. I wanted you to like me, because no one ever liked me before but everything seemed possible in that stranger adventure. Then you insulted Hagrid and I didn’t like you anymore, because Hagrid was brilliant and kind and he made me cake and rescued me. You discarded him without ever having talked to with him.” Harry trails off again, the words filled with old hurt, scarred and never properly healed, but he doesn’t let go of Draco. He doesn't push him away or condemn him for mistake he made as a child, and Draco forces himself to focus on his actions instead of Harry's voice, tainted with disgust and disconcerting detachment as it is. 

“Next we met on the train, after I had more time to settle into my new life, after I met Ron. You came in, your friends flanking you liked bodyguards. That, too, reminded me of Dudley. Him and his gang, they liked to make a sport out of chasing people for Dudley to beat them up, his little henchmen holding them so they couldn't escape. At that moment, I was utterly convinced you would be exactly the same. Now I know you aren't, that you would sooner break your own hand trying to punch someone than actually hurt them, but you played the part well enough. And you had insulted Hagrid, so I wasn’t inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt. 

“I'm not sure if the next years were coloured by my judgement or if you really were that insufferable, but it all screamed of the cousin I hated.” Harry stops again, and this time it feels more monumental, more final than the other times. Harry isn’t pausing to order his next thoughts, Harry is done talking. 

That is a lot to work through. Draco doesn’t know where to start. 

For one, there is Harry’s terrible childhood, that Draco only heard exaggerated rumours on. He never consider the rumours a reliable source of information, because that would have been stupid and naive. They changed and grew every year, with every strange thing Harry did and every Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher Harry cost their job. Draco never believed a single one of them. They weren’t true anyway, as Harry just confirmed. They were much kinder than the truth. 

There is also what Harry said about Draco. The loud, selfish part of Draco demands that he starts there. After all, what good does understanding the fright Harry calls a childhood do either of them? Draco doesn’t know why Harry told him, but he is reasonably sure it isn’t because Harry harbours any hopes of Draco somehow repairing what happened to him. There is nothing Draco can do about things past. He might as well focus on the explicitly relevant part. 

Draco reminds Harry of his despicable cousin. That is, he is pretty sure, a problem. No one wants to reassemble a person like a that, especially not when you hear the complicated mix of feelings — none of them good, which makes things a bit simpler but not better — with which Harry talks of Dudley. 

Draco already heard that today, Harry might not have outright said it earlier but he didn’t have to. The knowledge got lost somewhere under the mess of events and falls that happened next, but Harry brought it up before, and Draco already knew. Knowing doesn’t make it easier, not at all, and Draco almost wishes there was something deeper than their beanbag that they could fall to so he could go back to quietly ignoring what Harry revealed. 

There is nowhere to fall, however, and Draco can no longer deny it. He can deny none of it, the accusations and their consequences, the parallels Harry drew glaring at him. There is nothing Draco can say in his defence, nothing to distance himself from the cruel tormentor that collected things for his entertainment, crashed them with his carelessness and made Harry’s life miserable for no better reason than because he had the power to do so. 

Draco thinks he might be sick. 

He doesn’t want to be that person — who in their right mind would want to be that person? Sure, he isn’t exactly like Dudley, Draco likes to think he stayed far away from mindless cruelty, he takes better care of his things and would never let them go to ruin, and he wouldn’t classify his friends as henchmen either, but those are all subtle differences that don’t change the bigger picture. A flaw is a flaw, whether you paint it purple or green, whether it’s motivated from a darkness in character or ignorance. 

Meaningless as it might be, Draco clings to that ignorance. There are things you can do against that, you can learn and become better, ship away at it until there is nothing left and build yourself anew in the light of knowledge. 

Rotten character however, that would be much harder to wipe out and, frankly, Draco isn’t convinced you would even _want_ to. But Draco does want to be better, surely that is a good sign? He holds up ignorance like it might protect him against any of the more unsavoury explanations, and he shuts his eyes to the rest. 

Besides, Draco can’t be all that bad a person, because Harry is still here. Harry is a man made up of morals, clean cut rights and wrongs, no space for greys or doubts. If he thought Draco to be a bad person, he would have pushed him away by now. Instead Harry is holding him close, one hand buried in his hair and the other idly tracing over his back. 

Whatever Harry meant in linking Draco and Dudley together like he did, he didn’t mean it as explanation on why Draco should let him go. 

That is good, Draco has no intention of letting Harry go. 

Draco has also no indention of hurting Harry. He will need to be better, until Harry doesn’t remember how he could ever think Draco and Dudley similar. He doesn’t want Harry to feel second rate standing next to him, he should never have been made to feel like that in the first place, and Draco will see to it that he never feels like it again. 

“But you aren’t like Dudley at all, are you?” Harry suddenly speaks up again and Draco, who was sure Harry wouldn’t say anything more and lost himself in Harry’s breathing and taking apart what he already said, startles as both are broken up by Harry’s question. “You care about your friends as people and not just in terms of what they can do for you. Yeah, you were a mean little shit, but let’s be honest, we all were. This room, it’s stuffed full with so many things, Draco, I don’t think you even realise. My mind immediately went to Dudley, to the two rooms he had to cram his stuff into and forget about. 

“You didn’t forget them here. You love these things, you value them and you care for them; you didn’t get them because they were expensive and you wanted to prove that you could, but because something about them fascinated you. I want to know what that is, Draco. I want you to tell me about everything in this room and what it means to you.” Harry’s hands on Draco have stilled, holding on to him, as if he is scared that Draco will leave. 

Doesn’t Harry know Draco could never leave him? 

It’s a relief to hear that Draco isn’t like Dudley after all, that Harry since changed his mind because he learnt more about Draco, but it’s overshadowed by the realisation that Harry thinks Draco might leave, that he doesn’t know how important he is. Draco needs to rectify that immediately. 

Praying the beanbag won’t give under his hand, Draco levers himself up and out of his hiding space against Harry’s neck. The ground holds firm and Harry’s hands only clench on him for a short moment before letting Draco go and then suddenly, Draco is looking into Harry’s eyes. Harry’s impossibly green eyes, wide and vulnerable and scared. 

“I would like that, Harry. I will show you everything.” Draco leans up to drop a fleeting kiss on Harry’s forehead, like his mother used to do when he was sick and she wanted to let him know that he was cared for. 

Draco doubts Harry will understand that exact reference, but he hopes the message translates regardless. He doesn’t have the words to express the warmth pooling in his chest, the fiercely protective urge making him want to keep Harry here forever, far away from anything that could hurt him, so the kiss will have to do. 

Harry smiles up at him, tiny and unsure, and before Draco can think too much about what that smile means, he lays back down, this time with Draco the one offering cover, pulling Harry against his side. 

They can’t stay here forever, they have stories to tell and boxes to pack, but just for a moment, Draco can allow Harry, too, to hide from the world. 


	17. Chapter 17

Harry has the most amazing dream, of Draco and warm skin and soft gasps, kissing Draco without the guilt of knowing that he doesn't like it because Draco is kissing him back; a dream of lust and heat and passion, hands gripping at him and Draco saying his name —

“Harry, _wake up_!” Draco shakes him, rudely waking him, and his voice is filled with… panic? Why would Draco feel panic?

Harry is awake in a matter of seconds, war-hardened instincts making him reach for his wand and scan the room for any threats.

Everything seems as it should be, the low light of morning filtering through the curtains, their clothes neatly sorted into the closet because Draco hates the mess (but he also hates cleaning, so he makes Harry do it), and — Draco! 

Draco is safe, Harry's brain helpfully supplies, he already secured him.

Well, kind of safe. Harry thinks he might be smothering him rather badly — yeah, yeah, he is. 

Draco glares up at him, pinned to the bed by Harry's hand pressing down on his chest where Harry both props himself up and keeps Draco out of any potential danger. The panic that woke Harry is no longer as loud but it’s still there and — oh, that’s his fault, because Harry woke up like the crazy soldier haunted by the war that he tries so hard not to be. Of course, Draco doesn’t appreciate it! Harry should let him go, should apologise and lay back down and act like all is completely normal, hope that Draco won’t comment.

His instincts won’t let him do that. Making sure everyone is safe is always more important than making sure everyone is comfortable.

Harry keeps Draco down as he gives the room a last sweep, a few cursory spells for anything his eyes might have missed, as well as the house beyond the bedroom walls. It’s all fine; no threats, no danger — just a slow morning, sleep already calling to him again.

Harry releases Draco, vague ideas of apologies and explanations on his tongue, but none of them relevant as the adrenaline fades and he collapses onto the bed.

Harry should go back to sleep, because between the nightmares and sitting watch, sleep is a precious thing and needs to be caught whenever possible, except there is something poking him and —

“Harry, you useless oaf, wake up this instant.” Draco looks murderous, hair dishevelled from sleep, and his eyes narrowed at Harry, quiet fury hanging over him.

That is when it hits Harry.

The war is over, they won. Everyone is fine.

Everyone except Draco, who looks at Harry with a peculiar mix of exasperation, anger, and fear.

Harry might have realised all of this before.

And then pushed Draco down into the bed to make sure he wouldn’t be seen and taken by the enemy long since defeated.

Right.

That explains Draco's problem. Hopefully, this incident will teach him not to wake Harry in the middle of the night (early morning, he established that already — moot point, though).

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, because he does have _some_ manners.

He also has the feeling Draco won’t let him go back to sleep without acknowledgement, and Harry desperately needs either more sleep or more coffee. Draco might have finally learnt that Harry takes his caffeine with milk, but the overall quality hasn't improved much. Sleep it is, then, no way is Harry getting up to make coffee and listen to Draco’s complaints instead of sinking into peaceful oblivion.

“Do you have any idea what you are apologising for?” Draco simply can’t let it go, dragging Harry away from the brink of unconsciousness yet again. This is getting irritating.

“Whatever offended you, write me a list if you want.” There, that should be enough to appease him. 

Harry will have to answer for his crimes later, neatly presented in a list Draco’s had plenty of time and annoyance to compile, but Harry is willing to pay that price if it means Draco will stop bothering him now.

“Whatever _offended me_ — you don’t even realise, do you?” Draco is getting slightly hysterical, and Harry barely remembers to stifle his groan into a pillow.

Harry wishes the constant alertness during the war would have blessed him with the sleep of the dead now, as it has Ron. He could be sleeping through the mess this is building up to be, and they could talk about Draco’s problem like rational people over coffee, once Harry is fully rested. Who knows, perhaps by then it wouldn’t have been a problem anymore. But even just escaping the screeching would have been phenomenal. Why won’t Draco _stop_?

“I’m trying to sleep here, Draco! Tell me what your bloody problem is, or keep your mouth shut.” Harry will feel bad about that, later; he realises this the moment Draco flinches back from the vitriol in his voice. Right now, Harry relishes in the quiet. _Finally_ , there is quiet.

Doesn't Harry deserve some quiet to sleep? He saved the world; doesn't that grant him anything? Don't the memories rob enough of his sleep?

Perhaps, but Draco also deserves not to be shouted at in his own home. 

Why do Harry's moral crises always come crashing down when he is least prepared to handle them?

Harry never claimed to be _pleasant_ to share a bed with. He gets peevish, and nightmares that wake him at odd hours of the night, and he doesn’t share the blankets, but, even for him, that was a bit heavy. He'll have to apologise later, do some grovelling. 

Harry hopes Draco won’t be so spooked as to insist on separated beds again; Harry rather likes sleeping with Draco at his side. Most mornings, he even enjoys waking up to the git.

“Do I look like I care about your precious beauty sleep? You can sleep as long as you want, an entire month for all I care, but that doesn’t give you the right to ignore all personal boundaries.” Draco is still screaming, the grace his rage usually holds nowhere to be seen, and nothing left in him but indignant panic.

He’s also moved as far away from Harry as possible without leaving the bed, as if he was contagious. Brilliant, just great. 

At the risk of repeating himself, Harry doesn’t want to deal with this right now. It doesn't help that he still doesn’t know what Draco's problem is.

What did he say — ignore all personal boundaries? What does that even mean? They sleep in the same bed — one that is incidentally meant for only one person, and Grimmauld is very phlegmatic about making adjustments for more space — Harry would like to know exactly what personal boundaries could possibly remain there for him to violate.

“Calm down, would you? Lay back down and we can —” _go back to sleeping which we never should have stopped doing_ , is what Harry was about to say. He doesn’t get the chance.

Draco springs up from the bed, the same way he did when he found the first ferret in it. It would be hilarious if it wasn’t _Harry_ , this time, who is the ferret. Metaphorically speaking, Harry checked. Still, Draco looks at him with such disgust that Harry checks again to make sure he didn’t somehow turn into a ferret, after all.

No, still human. As expected, this shouldn't be a surprise, not even a vague one.

“Lay back down, and let you go back to _groping_ me? I don’t think I will.” Draco stands pressed against the wall, their blanket wrapped around himself.

His words don’t quite register with Harry, but that image does. The flimsy attempt at a shield, at protection, _that_ sinks in.

“What?” The word, the only thing Harry’s mind seems capable of producing, sounds punched out and hollow.

Harry is pretty sure he isn’t supposed to be able to hear that, how his own voice sounds like all the air held in his lungs has been ripped out of him, stumbling and lost for balance.

“It’s one thing for you to make use of my body when you are awake — that’s… that’s _fine_ , because that was the deal. But you weren’t awake, you don’t even _remember_! But _I_ do, _I_ was awake, and _I_ remember every excruciating moment of it!” Draco is having some kind of breakdown. That’s the only explanation Harry comes up with.

Draco is having some kind of breakdown.

Or, perhaps he had a bad dream. They all have nightmares — it's only logical that Draco has them, too. And, now he is disoriented and talking nonsense. That is most definitely what is happening here. It has to be, because if it isn't… if it _isn’t_ , Harry doesn’t think he wants to know what Draco is saying.

One thing is for sure: Harry is suddenly, chillingly awake.

“What are you saying, Draco?” Draco doesn’t notice the new quality to his voice, doesn’t realise how much depends on his next words.

Harry is pulled tight, strung high and ready to snap, teetering on that edge and waiting, waiting on Draco’s choice.

“I am talking about how you take more than what we agreed upon. You want your entertainment? Fine, you may have that. You want something to do, want to bite and mark and bleed your frustration until you feel better — all part of the deal, all part of your due. But you have _no right_ to take me in your sleep, _no right_ to demand anything of me if you aren’t even conscious enough to recognise me.” Draco is getting into proper ranting, whatever he is talking about bottled up for far too long and breaking out in an explosion of flying shrapnel, edges sharp and cutting them both deep. 

Actually, Harry has a good idea of what Draco is talking about. Harry doesn't like it, but Draco doesn’t exactly use ambiguous words, and while he might like to call Harry stupid, he really isn’t. No, Harry hears him loud and clear, little as he likes it, but it’s early enough that he can get away with denying the truth before he will be forced to face it.

“I knew it was you.” It’s an inane thing to say, completely misses the point, but it’s the truth, and it’s the only part of Draco’s sentence that he can think about without his stomach churning.

Harry must have known it was Draco, on some level of subconsciousness he must have known, because it was Draco in his dream, as well. Harry didn’t realise Draco was _real_ , perhaps, but he did recognise Draco, and that is the only thing he can say to defend himself.

As if that makes anything better, any of the accusation Harry is stubbornly avoiding less grievous.

“Oh, you knew it was me! That’s alright, then, if you _knew_ it was me. Someone give the man a medal!” Draco being sarcastic should be a good sign, but it only serves to infuriate Harry.

It’s not Draco's usual brand of sarcasm, clever and seldom going for the expected, but instead it's shot through with frenzy. Harry doesn’t feel bad for not being comforted to hear it. 

(There is also the issue of Draco being painstakingly aware of how close Harry is, obviously wishing for the wall to part to grant him sanctuary. Harry deliberately doesn't think about that.)

“That is not what I meant, and you know it!” Harry doesn't know what exactly it is he meant, but this isn’t it.

“Do I? Do I, Harry? Because the way I see it, everything I thought I knew is being thrown out of the window, because it’s not good enough for you anymore. Because you are _greedy_ , you want more and more and always _more_.” Alright, that is enough. Draco has problems with their sex life (or problems in general, because this is hardly sane behaviour), but Harry refuses to listen when all it gets him are warped allegations.

If Draco wants to talk about what is bothering him, well, Harry has been trying to get Draco to talk about sex for weeks, he has _questions._ Talking would be more than fine with Harry, they can do that, calm and collected and with at least one of them knowing what they want to say. But Harry won’t stand here and quietly take Draco’s unexplained wrath. He’s done nothing wrong; he won’t allow Draco to take out his frustrations on him.

“Perhaps I wouldn’t have had to resort to rubbing against you in my dreams if you were to give up your cold dignity spiel and admit to yourself that you want this as much as me. I'm tired of chasing you, doing all the work for both of us. I’ve waited for you to get off your high horse, and, just once, be the one to initiate things. Do you want to know how long I’ve waited, Draco? Do you want to know how long I waited for my _bloody husband_ to look at me?” It’s been entirely too long, that’s how long he’s waited! Harry has _needs_ , and he grew accustomed to having those needs satisfied. He can’t be blamed for getting irritable when he is suddenly deprived of that.

“Are you saying this is _my_ fault? Because I didn’t beg you to sate your perverse desires on me, I deserve to be violated in my sleep?”

Wait, what? Perverse desires — what is Draco talking about? They didn’t do anything _crazy;_ Harry made sure they kept to fairly tame, standard stuff!

Also, _violated_?

Harry feels faintly sick, the pieces slowly fitting together to create one horrible, horrible conclusion. (The exact thing he has been denying in an increasingly desperate struggle finally victorious.)

Draco doesn't want to kiss Harry.

Draco goes from tense in one moment to barely present in the other.

Draco never initiated anything.

Harry doesn’t like what this is spelling out, he doesn't like it at all.

Surely, he is wrong? Draco cannot possibly be saying what Harry thinks he is saying. Harry would have noticed!

“What?” Harry asks, the single question his entire mind whirs around.

What is happening?

What is Draco saying?

What _isn’t_ Draco saying?

_What did Harry do?_

“Isn’t that what you said? That you waited for _me_ to come and ask for what _you_ want?” Draco is _enjoying_ this, something sick and twisted on his face. Harry can practically hear him laugh, high and cruel.

How long has he waited to reveal this to Harry? How long has he held onto the thought of one day — this day — turning the tables on Harry, making him pay for what Harry did to him?

Harry feels his mind settle back into the familiar comfort of hating Draco, hating what he stands for and the way he carelessly dismisses anything and anyone precious to Harry. He feels himself fall back into the war, watching in cold calculations, and unbothered by the blood dripping from his hands.

Draco made a big mistake, waking things that should be left sleeping and forgotten, but Harry doesn’t care about Draco anymore, not right now.

“What about you, then? What do _you_ want?” Harry gets up from the bed, standing tall in the room and watching in satisfaction as Draco flinches back against the wall, that simple movement from Harry all it took to vanquish his bravado.

Draco watches him with wide eyes, well aware that something crucial has changed, that he has to watch his words better. The room is Harry's now, Harry holds all the power.

“Is that some sort of trick?” Draco is avoiding the question, gaze frantically darting around the room, but always quickly returning to Harry, scared of looking away for too long. In this moment, Draco is helplessly pinned prey, well aware of Harry approaching, displeased and more than amenable to hurt him.

There is a sadistic pleasure to be found in making people squirm, watching them realise they have every reason to fear you. Harry didn't like it at first, but power is an intoxicating thing, and Harry is surrounded by it constantly.

Much as he might enjoy the game, his mind plunged into icy warfare, Harry can feel the irritation trying to break his calm, spiking and pressing against his skull. Harry doesn’t let it get to him, focusing all his attention on pressing a clear answer out of Draco.

“No, I genuinely want to know. What do you want, Draco?” Harry tries for kind and caring, coaxing the words out that way, but it falls flat, the gentle smile on his face contorted into a mocking caricature.

No matter, Harry would rather scare him than beg, anyway.

“Please, as if that ever mattered before.” Draco is scrambling, reaching desperately for something to say and bring between him and Harry. 

Too late, Harry is already here.

“I'm not going to ask again: _what do you want from me_?” Harry grabs Draco by the shoulders, making sure he can’t escape as he holds him tight, shoving him up against the wall.

Harry will get his answers, one way or another he will learn how long Draco has been playing this twisted game, what he hoped to gain from it.

“I want your hands off me!” Draco struggles in Harry’s grip, barely manages to move at all against Harry’s strength.

Harry could hold him here forever, could hold him high off the ground until Draco _finally_ answers. Harry would stand here and watch as the fear takes overhand, as pride and defiance leak out of Draco, useless. Harry would stand here and watch him break —

Harry lets Draco go as if burned.

It doesn’t help — watching Draco crumple onto the floor is almost worse than forcing him up.

It’s moments like these when Harry actively hates who he is, the grand destiny prophesied onto him. 

Moments when the war claws its way back up, when there is a normal, everyday triviality Harry can’t do because he isn’t a normal, everyday person anymore. 

Moments when the person behind the hero disappears, and all that is left Harry’s anger and frustration at the universe, the knowledge that he could get away with everything, could do anything he wanted and would be forgiven.

Heroes consumed by unfocused wrath and with no personhood left are dangerous for everyone — you need to read just one Batman comic to know that (and Harry has read several, Dudley was a fan for few weeks, until he decided the depicted violence wasn’t worth the required reading).

Harry tries to find his way back into being a person, into someone who can look at Draco and see more than a foe to be annihilated. People are never that simple, not even during wartime when they are reduced to it anyway, to facilitate the killing.

Draco is a person, with his own complex motivations and struggles that he’s never shared with Harry. Harry needs to remember that before he goes around strangling him against the closest wall. Draco is his husband, his infuriatingly obstinate husband, but, nonetheless, deserving of more respect.

Their breathing is loud in the silence, the only sound audible.

Harry wishes there was something else, something to think about that isn’t his meltdown, Draco’s horrible secret he as good as told, or their ragged breathing. Out of the three of them, Harry can only hope to hyper-fixate on the breathing. Which gets _weird_ , and it takes no time at all before he interprets all kind of sorrow and hardship into it, thinks about the breaths as _laboured_ and filled to the brim with unspoken words. It’s ridiculous and over-dramatic, and Harry blames this tendency to produce random prose on Draco.

It doesn’t matter how much Harry would rather focus on the meandering descriptions of simple breath (deceptively simple? Is Draco plotting something vile and hiding it under a composed exterior?), it does nothing against the truth crowding in on him, only ever implied as it was.

“How long?” Harry asks, despite how he doesn’t want to know. Knowing would make it real.

(From the looks of things, it has been very real for Draco for a long time, but Harry isn’t ready to face _that_ bucket of guilt either, so he brushes past it.)

Harry doesn’t want to know, but he asks anyway. He _needs_ to know.

Rationally speaking, certainty is the only thing that can save Harry. Doubts fester in this vague, mostly denied half-knowledge Harry protects viciously, and doubts are the absolute last thing he needs here. Doubts mean blanks to fill, soil for evermore grim ideas to fester and grow, reaching through his entire mind and condemning him to a dystopian vision of what might be the truth, or what might be something else completely.

“Excuse me?” Draco evidently utilised their little break better than Harry did, composure pulled tight around him in a far more effective shield than the blanket he lost somewhere in Harry's attack, clipping his words short.

Harry almost laughs at it, at how reversed their situations suddenly are. Not minutes ago, it was _him_ who held all the strings, him who controlled the situation. Draco might not be as violent in his primacy, but that doesn’t change the simple fact of its existence. Draco is the one looking down his nose now, watching Harry squirm and twist and denying him the mercy of ending his agony.

The whole situation is absurd and painful, and Harry almost laughs around the blood in his mouth. (Why is there blood in his mouth? How long has it been there? Did he bite a lip? Does it matter?)

“How long have you hated my touch?” Harry forces himself to look Draco in the eyes, because that, too, is something he _needs_ to see, even though he doesn’t want to. _Especially_ because he doesn't want to.

Draco doesn’t visibly react, disappointing Harry’s hope that his crude and exaggerated choice of words would goad him out from behind his shields. Looking at Draco, meeting the open disgust and scorn, Harry realises that perhaps his gamble didn’t work because they were not exaggerated at all.

Harry didn’t know he was capable of feeling worse, but that does it. That’s the thing with gambles — they can pull the last stitch of ground you stand on right out from under your feet.

“Always, I’ve always hated it.” And Harry falls.


	18. Chapter 18

“Okay, so, that was ugly. And then Potter threw you out?” Pansy asks, breaking the silence that settled in after Draco told her about the fight. Well, a heavily edited version of it; Draco doesn’t tell her how this could have been avoided if he had kept his mouth shut and born it, if he had just kept on doing what he had perfected over the months. He didn’t tell her that it’s his fault, that he is still broken.

“No, Pansy, he didn’t throw me out of the house.” _Not yet_ , Draco doesn't say.

It was only a question of time until Harry realised all the things Draco didn’t say, and, having seen how he reacted to the few truths Draco admitted to, he didn’t want to stay and watch that. At least this way, Draco can pretend that leaving was his own choice, can preserve the shaky remnants of his dignity. He walked out of that house upright, with his head held high and the certainty that Harry didn’t go unscathed either.

That one shouldn’t feel like a victory, not even a hollow one. Harry is a good person, he truly lives up to the picturesque hero saving cats that the papers like to cite (when they aren’t busy tearing him to shreds for daring to water the lawn in his pyjamas, that is). Harry is _good_ , and if it weren't for Draco's pride and anger, they might even have found a solution to navigate this wrong thing in Draco. Harry likes helping people, and perhaps he could have taught Draco.

No, that’s ridiculous. Draco tried that — learning from Harry — and it didn’t work. The best thing he can say about those experiences is that they gave him time and motivation to perfect his Occlumency, shutting his brain to every and all impressions, neatly cutting the strings between his mind and body and only coming back up once Harry was done.

Would it have been so bad to keep doing that? Why did Draco have to say something?

“That’s good news, isn’t it?” Pansy tries so hard to see something positive in this situation, as if it’s not the death sentence of his marriage. There is nothing positive to be found here, only shatters of what Draco lost.

Draco doesn’t tell her that, either. He doesn’t want to be lectured about how she knew all along that things would work out just fine, that they would fall in love and forget all about the practical reasons they claim to have married for. Draco doesn’t want to hear it.

“It’s really not. If you don’t want me here, you can just say so. I can rent a hotel room or ask —” Pansy glares him into silence before Draco can finish the sentence. Fair enough; it’s generally understood that the offer to leave for a hotel room is more of a threat (because what kind of friend would abandon you to a hotel when they have perfectly serviceable guest room) than it is a courtesy. In this concrete case, it means Draco doesn’t want to answer any more questions, and Pansy had better stop asking.

Pansy doesn’t stop asking.

“So, you fought over personal boundaries, you said? I thought you had settled on that weeks ago. Last you told me, you were as happy as can be, and you were thinking about introducing him to your parents.”

“First, that isn’t true. I said I was contemplating showing mother what I did with the house, perhaps ask for her opinion on some of the rooms I’d tell her I didn’t get to yet. I never said anything about introducing Harry, and much less about bringing my father along, too. I didn’t give a single thought to the garden, as, apparently, that is what matters to him these days.

“Second, and far more important, I think I trespassed on you long enough, now. Even a friendship as intimate as ours needs limits, and I rather think we’ve hit ours here.” Draco moves towards the Floo, fully prepared to jump anywhere as long as it’s not here anymore (or Harry — Draco doesn’t particularly want to stumble over Harry either), and he doesn’t waste any time dwelling on Pansy’s slightly amused, very smug smile.

He should have. Pansy smiling is rarely a good thing, and, looking back, that was more of a smirk than a smile, which is even more dangerous. But Draco never seems to learn, and he doesn’t pay it any mind, too intent on his escape for suspicions.

“Draco, such a surprise to meet you here!” Blaise steps out of the Floo, his exaggerated euphoria all the warning he gets before Blaise swoops down on him, trapping Draco in his arms and leading him away from his last chance at freedom. It also is a great strategy to gain some privacy under Pansy’s watchful eyes, and Blaise leans even closer to whisper into Draco’s ear. “Pansy told us Potter kicked you out of the house, and you turned up on her doorstep like a drenched Crup, so here we are. Sorry about the little warning, you know how she gets.”

And then Draco is unceremoniously shoved back onto the couch, their momentary bond against their cruel oppressor over and done with as Blaise passes by them to make some noise in the kitchen. Problems aren't discussed on an empty stomach.

“You invited Blaise?”

“Theo, too. He should be here soon, and Merlin knows we will need all the help we can get prying your dark secrets from you.” Pansy smirks at him, all too pleased with herself. _This_ is why Draco shouldn’t have run out on Harry as he did; there is nowhere safe to run.

Pansy must be desperate to learn what happened if she is bringing in the cavalry already. Draco honestly didn’t think he omitted enough for it to be noticeable, nothing that would make her suspicious. But then, Draco does have the unfortunate tendency to underestimate how well Pansy knows him. And now she is bringing _Theo_ , who is practically infamous for needing only five minutes to convince Draco to spit out whatever it is others have been pestering him about for hours. Okay, that’s not true — Theo does need longer than that, and he picks his battles wisely, but it’s still rather more impressive than Millicent, who simply resorts to throwing things at Draco. It never got him to talk, but in recent years, that has become more of an excuse to be rude, anyway.

Theo won’t do Pansy any good today — Draco won’t tell them a single thing. He’s managed this for so long — years of fascinated bewilderment and feeling lonely and alienated — and Draco will make it through the shattering end of his marriage, as well. And in the end, when they’ve signed all the papers and divided their property, when they’ve fought viciously over Grimmauld and dredged up every bit of possibly painful information and insight they have on the other, once they’ve utterly destroyed the image they held and loved so dearly, then Draco will still have his friends to return to. Just like it has always been.

“You already know all my dark secrets, Pansy. I’d estimate you are responsible for half of them. They are basically _your_ secrets at this point.” Draco doesn’t know why he bothers; he could never lie to Pansy. She’s like a human lie detector, sniffing them out without hesitation and never once being wrong in her findings. She knows Draco well enough that she doesn’t even have to look at him to do it, most days.

And still, Draco tries to lie. Perhaps it’s a self-preservation thing. Not only would admitting to having a secret he has no intentions of sharing be certain doom for the crucial aspect of secrecy until finally Pansy figured it out (she would, too — her ability to tell lies from truths, paired with her insatiable curiosity, makes for a good combination to hunt down what others want to keep hidden), but it would also mean admitting his flaws out loud. That would make them real, giving them a name and sharing them, and real things are much harder to ignore than vague concepts.

Pansy is thankfully prevented from asking further by Theo's arrival, stumbling out of the Floo dishevelled and annoyed. It’s such an unusual look for him that Pansy can’t resist asking about it, even if it gives Draco the perfect opportunity to escape into the kitchen, where Blaise is still cooking. It’s her luck and Draco’s biggest weakness that Draco, too, is curious to a fault; he cannot possibly leave when Theo looks like he took the hurricane here.

“Theo, darling, you look slightly ruffled. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great look on you, but…” Pansy trails off. Commenting on Theo's perfectionist tendency is always a risky thing, especially so when done to point something out that he missed. There is no way Theo simply _forgot_ to brush his hair back or straighten his clothes (or put on some new ones, these are wrinkled and loose as if he slept in them), which only serves to make his appearance more intriguing.

“Don’t you ‘darling’ me, Parkinson! I’ve told you before that your bloody owl is a menace and a danger to society that should be locked away.” Theo is _furious_ , it’s an awe inspiring sight to behold.

Knowing what’s happened, Draco can see the traces their encounter left. For some reason guarded more closely than the password to the dungeons used to be, Theo and Osbourne (Ozzy for short, though no one but Pansy dares use the nickname) have a viscous enmity — one that only grew worse with every attempt to resolve the struggle. Draco can see the still-bleeding cuts on Theo's fingers, the tiny feathers splattered over his shoulders he prays for Theo’s sake Pansy won’t notice. There might even be the last remnants of bird poo in his hair, which Draco won’t be mentioning. Theo would not appreciate it, and Pansy would never stop gloating.

It’s generally understood not to make fun of Theo's… _problems_ with the owl, as long as he gets rid of all irrefutable evidence. Except for Pansy, who is utterly fearless and feeds the devil with her bare hands, they’ve all had unfortunate dealings with Osbourne. None of them are keen on discussing the details, much less having it brought up again and again. So, Draco doesn’t mention it and instead shoots Theo a discreet charm to take care of the mess. Pansy is so busy defending the honour of her beast of a bird that she doesn’t care about something as trivial as cleaning charms right now. Theo, though, Theo _does_ care, and he gives Draco a grateful nod. _Good_ , he better not forget this moment when Pansy inevitably remembers why they are here and starts hounding Draco again. He could use an ally.

* * *

“Wait, wait, wait! Are you seriously saying Potter threw you out because he dreamt of how perfectly dull his life could be had he married _Ginevra Weasley_? Because under no accounts can that be the truth, starting with the fact that Ginny is the opposite of dull.” Blaise gets suspiciously defensive over Weasley, Draco notes. Of all the absurd theories Pansy has been spouting for the last 30 minutes, _this_ is what Blaise takes offence at. Curious, Draco should do some digging later. Harry might know something — and Draco can’t ask Harry anymore. He forgot about that. For one glorious hour, Draco honestly forgot.

“Great, now you made Draco sad again!” Pansy glares at Blaise, who looks suitably chastised, before turning back to Draco. “Don’t worry, I sincerely doubt that Potter would have any fun running off with Ginger, because she is, in fact, horribly dull; very Gryffindor, if you know what I mean. Blaise doesn’t get a say, we all know he has terrible taste in people. Should Potter have decided to join Weasley in the exciting life of adultery, he will be sorely disappointed and soon come crawling back.”

Draco can’t tell if she is trying to be comforting or to lighten the mood. On one hand, none of what Pansy said makes any sense at all, like nothing else she came up with after she grew bored with not having her questions answered. On the other hand, she does sound awfully serious.

“Thank you, that is greatly reassuring.” Draco might not be able to lie to her, but he can feign conviction well enough to confuse her.

* * *

“But you hate flowers! Why would Potter bring you flowers?” Pansy interrupting Draco’s story is rude, and Draco glares to let her know that, but she does raise a good point.

Draco made no secret out of thinking the whole idea of fragile flowers in the house ridiculous and cumbersome and generally something that should be avoided. He doesn’t know why Harry was suddenly convinced he needed to convert Draco to the insipid flower worshippers, but he appreciated the earnest ardour with which Harry approached his task. Draco might have been torn between being charmed by the implied concern that he is missing something beautiful and the indignation of having his coarse Gryffindor husband lecture him about the luxuries of life, but he certainly cherished the effort.

“Because he thought I hated that they have to die, and bringing them with a prison and clinging to earth conveniently made them immortal.” Draco didn’t understand that thought process at first — how could he have? It was based on the assumption of Draco caring about a plant’s lifeem. Which, and he can’t stress this enough, he doesn’t. Harry, the poor bloke, didn’t understand Draco’s dislike at all, or why his ingenious idea with the potted plants didn’t wondrously solve all their problems. Not even his stammering explanation, getting firmer and more insistent with every repetition, could change Draco’s mind.

“You are smiling,” Pansy points out, voice soft and, for once, not teasing him about having Feelings. Draco wishes she were; he could snap at her and write it off as Pansy being Pansy, no need to think about the words or their meaning.

“I am not!” Denial without a proper provocation looks very suspicious — something Draco only fully realises when everyone turns to look at him.

“You so are! Theo, agree with me.” Pansy, still uncharacteristically considerate of Draco’s fragile Feelings, recognises his stumbling attempt at changing the mood and, this is the unexpected part, lets him get away with it. Not only that, but she actively encourages it, cutting the softness from her voice like it never was there to begin with and tugging at Theo’s arm to divide the attention focused on Draco.

If it weren’t for knowing look she shoots him, brief as it might have been, Draco could have convinced himself Pansy didn’t catch a glimpse of his pathetically fawning heart.

“Sorry to inform you that, yes, you did smile. And you thought of Potter — don’t even try to deny it. You looked all soppy and gooey; I would not have been surprised if you sighed wistfully to complete the look.” Theo smirks, and Draco can’t tell if he’s just a bastard smirking at other peoples’ misfortunes, or if he, too, noticed the shift in mood, doing his own part to carry them far away from the things Draco isn’t ready to admit.

(It’s the latter, obviously it’s the latter, or they wouldn’t be friends with Theo, but Draco refuses to be grateful for their teasing for the whole evening, lest they get too used to it. He did hand Draco a way out, though, so perhaps Draco can afford a little more gratitude before shutting it down again.)

“Okay fine, so I _might_ have thought of Harry and it _might_ have made me smile. But it’s not my fault, Harry is just —” _wonderful, amazing, caring, warm_ — Draco sighs. He could go on; he could write up an entire dictionary, and it wouldn’t do Harry justice.

Draco doesn’t realise until it’s too late that he spectacularly botched the opportunity Theo built for him. Draco had wanted to take the light, joking tone and go with it, bury his real Feelings under exaggerated and overdrawn mockeries of them, displayed for their amusement. Turns out his real feelings _are_ exaggerated and overdrawn, and Draco actually did sigh wistfully — not out of calculation, but because he _misses_ Harry.

They have been apart for a few hours, nothing said about finality or separation or breaks, but their marriage feels over all the same. It’s just not official, yet. They have been apart for a few hours, and Draco already misses the git. He misses his laughter and the passion he puts into anything he does, Harry’s tendency to lose his glasses and the simple delight he finds in even the most trivial things, as long as he thinks it would infuriate Draco’s ancestors. He misses his energy, strong and determined, misses his smiles and his smirks and his bad jokes. Draco even misses his hands, warm and steady when they hold him close, the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, the way he cards his fingers through Draco’s hair — Draco misses Harry.

It’s horrifying and scary and hurts, but it’s just one of the truths Draco will have to learn to live with. There are far too many of those, things he discovered in their marriage that didn’t really matter until it all broke apart (until _Draco_ broke it all apart), but most of them he can ignore well enough. Eventually he will have to face them, look at them all and examine, decide what to do with them and how to minimise the damage they could do to him, but it’s too late for this one. Draco misses Harry, and if he isn't careful, it’s going to destroy him.

“And there was the wistful sigh! That means I won, Blaise.” Theo rips Draco out of his melancholy, snapping his mind back to the familiar and well-trodden banter between his friends.

Draco would miss this, too, he realises suddenly, because some days are just like that. Draco takes great efforts to keep a wall between himself and the things he would rather not know about himself, the things that are too terrible or too important to know, because they hold too much power over him, and some days the wall is flimsy enough it might just as well not be there at all. Today is one of these days.

It’s not that Draco didn’t know, he doesn’t shove all of what he is behind the comfort of ignorance, but the vehemence of the feeling is something else in theory than when it hits you in the chest. He would miss them all horribly should they decide to leave one day. Draco wouldn’t know what to do without his friends, and he is suddenly desperately scared of losing them.

(This is why he needs the wall, for this exact reason.)

“What — no it doesn't! Draco only sighed because _you_ talked about it! You put the idea into his mind, he never would have done it otherwise. _I_ win.” Blaise has never once won a bet in his life. Depending on the mood and the stakes, it’s either tragic or hilarious. Given that they bet on him (which Draco isn’t too fond of — not that that’s ever stopped them) and the unexpected downward spiral his thoughts have taken (Draco didn’t think it could get lower than missing Harry; in retrospect, he stupidly tempted fate with that assumption), Draco decides on hilarious for this particular instance.

Blaise is infamous for his terrible betting skills, despite their best efforts to keep the knowledge under wraps. That is mainly due to Blaise himself, who refuses to accept what they collectively decided must be an ancient family curse and insists on trying again and again, each time convinced that this is the time his fortunes change. It never does. It’s a good thing Blaise is undefeatable in any other form of gambling — perhaps it’s some twisted apology, or an attempt at cosmic balance, but Blaise is as unable to lose at cards as he is unable to win a bet (which led to some uncanny accidents to avoid a definite outcome when they experimented with Blaise betting on his luck in cards) — or he would have long since lost all his money to bets. As it stands, it’s only his dignity he is giving up on, which seems to be an acceptable price for his experimentation.

“Pansy asked me; was I supposed to ignore her so you could delude yourself longer?” Theo has a good point there; you better have a really good reason not to do what Pansy asks of you, and even then, it’s risky business. Blaise, especially, should know that.

They have lost track of how many times Blaise has defied Pansy for reasons not deemed good enough — he regretted it every single time, Pansy’s revenge schemes getting more elaborate and more personalised with every spin they take. Actually, Draco wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out it was Pansy who cursed Blaise with his bad luck in bets, the gambling skills an unplanned side effect. Blaise and Pansy take some weird enjoyment out of baiting each other — something Draco never fully understood, because he might have similar habits with Harry (there he is again, _Harry_ , popping up in Draco’s thoughts, never far away, but Draco will not let himself be dragged down once more), but he doesn’t see the appeal in knowing the outcome before things have even started. And, they must know the outcome, surely? Pansy is going to take her revenge in increasingly creative ways, and Blaise is going to regret his foolishness for a few hours, and then he will have all but forgotten about the consequences of testing Pansy.

Luckily, Draco doesn’t have to understand it. They seem happy enough, Blaise thriving on the thrill of poking what would be better left alone, and Pansy claiming that sharpening her skills on Blaise is crucial to her reputation. No, Draco doesn’t understand, but they are content ,and he has something to tease them about.

“Yes, yes, that is exactly what a good friend would have done,” Blaise insists, once again trying to corrupt them all into courting Pansy’s wrath. His theory is that Pansy cannot possibly punish them all, which is naive and rather offensively underestimates Pansy’s talent and stubbornness.

“Not a very smart friend — rather poor, too, I’d wager. Pay up, loser.” Theo holds his hand out, expecting Blaise to hand over the money he is owed. That isn’t going to happen, and Theo should know that.

Considering how forsaken Blaise is with bets, one would think he has resigned himself to paying the price for his hopeless defiance and gotten used to settling his debts. One would be wrong. Blaise draws the process out every time, claiming not to have any money on him, contesting the regulations of the bet, and, in very desperate times, Blaise is known to just walk away. Theo is going to have to fight if he wants to see that money.

“You are both losers. Can we get back to the flowers Draco didn’t hate now?” Pansy might be a good friend who doesn’t force Draco to talk about his feelings when he honestly isn’t ready for that, but that doesn’t mean she won’t press every tiny detail that doesn’t concern their fight out of him. If mushy memories of flowers are all she is going to get, she wants that — in full.

“I did hate them! Thankfully, Harry has some magic black thumb, and he killed them pretty quickly.” Draco doesn’t want to talk about Harry. It’s either going to come out as embarrassingly infatuated, which is the last thing Draco needs, or unfairly hateful, which would hurt in different ways, cutting far too close to what finally broke them.

Pansy will make him talk anyway, about flowers and breakfast and heavy furniture carried through narrow corridors.

* * *

“You really loved him, didn’t you?” Blaise asks, gently so as not to shatter the silence that fell after Draco finished telling them yet another anecdote.

“Past tense?” Theo doesn’t even have the grace to pretend to ask, much more acting like he is pointing out a flaw in the logic, a flaw they should all have recognised already. Most infuriatingly, he is right.

Draco doesn’t know when it happened, couldn’t pinpoint a moment in time if he tried, but he went ahead and did the most stupid he could have done: Draco fell in love. With _Harry Potter_ , no less.

On one hand, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Draco has always held some distressingly fond and admiring feelings for Harry, even when he was still Potter and hated Draco enough to drag him into the Forbidden Forest in the middle of the night, enough to slice him open in an act of unthinking rage that almost cost Draco his life. Then they _married_ and moved in together, and Grimmauld was rather pushy for a stuffy old house — it shouldn’t came as a surprise that they had gotten closer in the process. The crying and the hugging was unexpected, as was the laughter, but looking back, Draco doesn’t see how it could have been different. He doesn’t _want_ it to have been different, even knowing how it ended.

On the other hand, this is _Harry Potter_. No matter how much sense it makes and how it was the only logical way, Draco never would have thought they could actually overcome their differences the way they did. He was sure they would be forever stuck in their resentment, fighting each other on everything, and, if they were really lucky, finally deciding to keep to their own half of the house and interact as little as possible.

But here Draco is, irrevocably in love with Harry.

He wonders if it would have changed things, had he realised that sooner. Perhaps he would have been able to bear Harry’s touch with more ease if he’d had sentiment to cling to? But then, what good is sentiment in desperate situations? Sentiment is a hollow shell, a pretty ornament that you can worry about once you moved all the rest out of the way — it doesn’t make anything easier. It might just be the opposite; sentiment makes things worse. It’s complicated and messy and demands personal investment. That’s why people stay in bad relationships, even when they are fully aware it’s bad and know that the sensible thing would be to cut all ties. No, if Draco had realised how desperately in love he was with Harry, things would have been worse.

Draco struggles to think of how it could possibly have been worse (although, adding love and the consequent desire to please would surely have done the trick). Their relationship didn’t seem as oppressive when he was living it, the shadow of his duties never quite so dark and easily pushed aside. Looking back on it in the merciless light of freedom, Draco feels sick. Relieved, too, because he might be heartbroken and in love with a man who might just hate him, but at least his body is his own again.

“Do you know what we need?” Pansy asks into the round, meeting solemn faces. Draco didn’t realise the mood had fallen so drastically, too lost in his own dark thoughts. That might have caused the shift in his friends as well, as Draco has long since given up trying to hide his moods from them. “Alcohol, quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol.”

That’s the best idea Pansy’s had all evening.

* * *

“How are _you_ the one who’s broken when Potter was stupid enough to kick you out?” They have all had much to drink, _too much_ perhaps, but Blaise’s speech is remarkably sharp and not at all slurred. 

Well, Theo isn’t drunk, Draco supposes. Theo is never drunk, because Theo never drinks, so Theo is never drunk. It must have been horrible for him, at first, when all his friends drank, and he didn’t, and then all his friends got loud or loopy or both, but he didn’t — Draco thinks they’ve learnt to handle things now, though. They are quite well behaved drunks, really, and Theo is a very patient sober.

“Because _I'm_ the one who wouldn’t have sex when he was asleep.” Draco is less sharp than Blaise — it feels that way, at least. Draco feels soft, malleable, sunken in puddle of misery, splashing out answers with every poking question. It’s all so very simple when you are drunk and don’t care about the consequences, because there are no consequences here, not when everything is fuzzy and miserable and the next day is an endlessness away.

“Is that some weird kink of his? My, my, our golden boy, who would have thought?” Blaise chuckles, and something in Draco sits up. He doesn't like that tone — Harry doesn’t deserve that tone.

Harry isn't the one who screwed up, who agreed to a deal and then refused to pay the price. That was Draco, all Draco, so Draco is the one who deserves that tone. They should really know that. Not only are they totally wrong in their assumptions, but they are also attacking Draco’s husband, which Draco is pretty sure he is legally obligated to stop. Even if he didn’t love him, it’s bad form, letting them say mean things about his husband, who Draco swore to love and protect.

Love? Did he swear that? He doesn’t remember. Their lawyers wouldn’t write up a clause about love, would they? Feelings are mushy, ambiguous things. You don’t base contracts on _Feelings_.

Well, so, maybe Draco didn’t promise to love Harry. He does anyway, all out of his own free will, and that means he should make sure no one says anything… unflattering. Calling him weird, making fun of the fact that Harry quite literally saved all their lives — _that_ is unflattering.

Yes, _yes_ , Blaise is wrong, and Draco needs to say something so he knows and won’t say it again.

“No! No, _he’s_ not weird. Maybe… it does seem rather weird, doesn’t it? But it’s _all_ weird, and no one else thinks it’s weird, so it must be _me_ who is weird.” There, now Blaise knows. They all know, and they all know everything. Nice and tidy, no more secrets. Because friends don’t have secrets, not even bad ones.

“Because you didn’t want to fuck Potter in his sleep? No, darling, that’s… well, perhaps not _weird_ ,because we don’t judge in this house, but not wanting that doesn’t mean you are weird, either. It’s rather more specialised than your standard stuff, isn’t it? And you like that, so all good.” Pansy means to be reassuring, Draco knows she does, because she is a good friend, and she wants to help, and maybe it would have worked, if Draco were a good friend, too. But he isn’t, Draco kept secrets and lied, and he didn’t tell Pansy, didn’t tell any of them that he isn’t like them, that he is broken. Pansy means to be reassuring, she does, but she doesn’t even know the problem.

“What if I didn’t?” Draco’s voice is small, just loud enough to be heard when you are willing to listen. He doesn’t feel warm anymore, safe and fuzzy and surrounded by his friends’ laughter, in a space where he could tell them anything and they would just laugh with him. Draco feels small, cold, and alone, separated by the endless vastness of difference that Draco stands no hope of crossing. He is cast out, watching them watch him, deciding what to do with him, now that he’s shown his true colours.

“If you didn’t what?” Interrogation it is, then — study the new life form, like an insect, caught and observed before being pinned and dissected. Draco doesn’t answer. What is there to say?

The silence stretches out, growing long and ominous and distancing them further. Draco doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like what their faces are doing, or what their brains are thinking; he doesn’t like what _his_ brain is thinking.

“What if I didn't like the standard stuff?” There is no harm in admitting to it again, Draco tells himself. He’s basically already told them of his damage, and they would have figured it out sooner or later. Maybe, like this, if he stays closer to who they thought to know and talks, they won’t ask him to leave immediately. Maybe they’ll just tease him. Draco doesn't think he could handle being teased for his failure.

“You don’t know?” If it weren’t so quiet, no one would have heard Theo. But it is quiet, because no one knows what to say to Draco after his confession, and they all hear Theo’s aghast question.

They all stare at Theo now, who has stopped talking in favour of staring at Draco, looking like a world or two has crumbled around him. Draco has no idea what he is talking about. He doesn’t know anything, least of all right now, so what does Theo mean? The world is neatly separated — in Draco, who has all the questions, and Theo, who has all the answers.

If ever there was a great answer to the great mystery, Draco is pretty sure Theo holds it.

And he doesn’t tell them, why doesn’t he tell them? Draco needs to know!

“What? What don’t I know? What did I miss? Tell me!” Draco wants to shake the answer out of Theo, would do it, too, if he weren’t afraid it would come out in bits and pieces he can’t put back together into coherency.

The longer Theo is silent, the more convinced Draco gets that he knows something, something big and important, something Draco doesn’t know but _should_ know.

“Merlin, Draco, I’m so sorry! I thought you knew. You asked so many questions, and I never wanted to outright say because I didn’t want to be that wanker that hands out labels for his own convenience, just going around pressing people into boxes — I gave you hints! I thought you might start doing your own research, discover everything organically and see how it fits, you know?” Draco doesn’t. He doesn’t know; that is rather the point.

“Theo, _please_ , just tell me.” Theo is the only one who could, of that Draco is convinced.

Draco’s entire life depends on Theo's answer, freeing or condemning him. Why doesn’t he —

“Personally, I always thought you fell somewhere on the Asexuality spectrum.”

Oh. Draco… Draco has no idea what that means, and he is too drunk to properly think about this, but it sounds… well, there’s a name. Names mean definitions; they mean studies and explanations, which, in turn, means that there are enough people to make a name necessary. Names are good.

* * *

“But he _did_ have sex with Potter, so how can he be asexual, then?” Blaise asked this already, about three times, Draco thinks, but they are all even more drunk — because that’s what you do when you get big words you don’t understand that might change your life but also scare you.

Wait, no, that’s not why Blaise is drunk, Blaise is only curious about the big word. Why is Blaise drunk again?

Friend! He’s Draco’s friend, that’s why, and he thought Draco should drink some more, but drinking alone is sad, so he drank, too.

And Draco is drunk because the big scary word is for him. Perhaps. Only if he likes it, Theo was very clear about that.

“For Salazar’s sake, keep up Blaise! It’s not about actions, it’s about what he _wants_ , like with anyone else. And he didn’t _want_ to have sex with Potter.” Pansy looks very smug for a moment, before something else passes over her face, something less pleased. “Wait a second — did Potter _rape_ you?”

“No!” Draco answers before he can think about it. Harry is _good_ , he wouldn't. “I never said no.”

“But did you say yes?” This seems very important to Blaise, leaning forward in his chair so far that Draco is worried he’ll topple over.

He raises a good point, though, well worth the risk of inelegantly falling on his face. Did Draco say yes? He doesn’t remember — whether he doesn’t want to, or the alcohol is dimming his mind, he doesn’t know for sure. Sometimes he did, like that very first time. Surely, he did the other times, too?

Did he even have to? They made a deal, Harry and him, and Draco agreed to do whatever possible so that Grimmauld wouldn’t pierce Harry on a rusty nail to bleed out in some forsaken corridor. Grimmauld wanted a proper marriage, and that means a new set of duties, even if, in the beginning, they tried avoiding that. In the end, Draco was never good at avoiding his duties; though, he wasn’t great at _doing_ his duty, either. He failed his parents, and he failed Harry, failed every task ever given to him. 

“Hold on, everyone, for a moment.” Theo holds his hands up, stopping the debate unfolding between Pansy and Blaise about if it even _matters_. Theo is the only one not drunk, smart and responsible, so they all listen to him. “I’m not an expert, and I don’t think I explained it properly, but it’s not about desires either. It’s about attraction, about looking at someone and seeing a sexual being. As I said, there’s a spectrum, all kinds of shades between those completely fine with sex, enjoying it even, and those who get sick just thinking about sex in the abstract. I don’t think I'm the right person to be talking about this, I just read a few books. I can recommend you the books, though, if you want to read them for yourself.”

Draco would like that, he thinks. Perhaps the word won’t be as scary in the morning, or when it’s pressed onto a page. Perhaps learning more will help him. Perhaps he can finally understand what separates him from the rest of the world.


	19. Chapter 19

“Harry, are you here?” Someone — Ron? Is that Ron? Harry doesn't know, he doesn't really _care_ , either — calls, voice echoing through the empty corridors. Everything echoes in Grimmauld, these days.

Harry laughs, rough and bitter, hurting his throat. That, too, echoes.

“Harry! Come on, mate, we’re worried!” Ron, that is definitely Ron. Who else would be worried?

How long has Harry been here? He doesn’t know, he has no watch and no interest in tempus charms, time flowing past. Harry feels like he fell out of his life, stumbled out of what could have been and into this place, wherever that is.

Grimmauld, obviously. But it’s Grimmauld without Draco, which makes it… capricious.

“There you are. Why didn’t you say anything?” Ron bursts into the room, breaking the oppressive silence hanging over Harry and the house. It’s not a quiet silence, the echoes make that impossible, but it’s a silence, nonetheless. 

Harry blinks up at Ron, standing in the doorway, light illuminating him from behind.

Grimmauld makes odd choices, now that Draco is gone, but this one Harry approves of. Ron: Harry’s own personal hero.

“Come on, up you get.” Ron doesn’t comment on Harry sitting on the floor, or on the light being dim, and the room being cold. He doesn’t comment, and Harry is grateful.

He didn’t notice before, or perhaps he didn't care, but Ron seeing him like this heaves things into new significance. Seeing Ron is a reminder of what Harry is supposed to be, the life Harry was supposed to lead. This isn’t it, sitting numbly in the house all day, trying to think of everything and nothing all at once.

Then Harry is standing, Ron holding him up. His legs hurt, protesting the sudden strain in spikes of tingling pain. How long has Harry sat there?

“Alright, let’s get you out of here.” Harry doesn't protest as Ron starts walking, slowly and carefully, pulling Harry with him. He wants to leave — there is no reason to stay now that Draco is gone.

Draco, right. 

Harry wants to laugh again. He doesn’t; it hurts too much, and it isn’t even funny. He screwed up badly with Draco, he shouldn’t be laughing.

It’s odd — Draco is undeniably gone, and Harry remembers the shift in Grimmauld when he stepped into the Floo, but sometimes, it feels like he is still here, wandering the corridors Ron drags them thorough. It’s the echoes, Harry knows, ghost lights calling to him and hiding the doom they are in under a pretty facade. Sirens, perhaps, beckoning him closer to devour him. If it weren't for Ron holding him close, Harry would go.

Harry sees Draco in every room they pass, sees him hiding smiles behind books and frowning at his plans, trying to teach the ferrets tricks or sneaking sweets out of the secret storages he installed all over the house and didn’t think Harry knew about. He sees Draco laughing and happy, sees him how he only knew him for a short time, and Harry aches with how much he wants to go back.

What happened? How did they lose this?

Harry sees Draco cringing against walls, sees him throw up after Harry’s touched him, sees him bundle up in blankets and pace in front the door, deciding if the worse fate is freezing to death or sharing a bed with Harry.

That is what happened. Harry never even noticed.

Harry remembers every fight they had, the deals they made, and how hard Draco fought against it all. 

Harry remembers that Draco only ever protested the kissing, that he was either skittish or impassive, that he always suddenly withdrew from touches when their intent became sexual. 

Harry remembers Draco reaching out to him anyway, hugging him and seeking skin contact like he was starving for it after sex. He remembers Grimmauld purring around them, then, when Draco finally got the contact he needed but couldn’t ask for.

Harry remembers being on the brink of realising this, remembers oddities adding up and the general shape of their problem becoming clearer and clearer. 

Harry remembers closing his eyes to it all, because he didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to face the uncomfortable truth, so he condemned Draco to carrying that burden on his own.

And Draco did, until he snapped.

Harry was a selfish bastard, no consideration for anyone else, and taking advantage of Draco. That is what happened. That is why Draco left.

Harry can’t fault him. If he were an onlooker on the situation, if he wasn’t the one being left, he would have advised Draco to do the same. Draco deserves better than Harry, someone who pays attention and isn’t too scared to face what they see. (Perhaps Harry would have advised him thus even fully aware he is the husband about to be left.)

“Anywhere specific you want to go?” Ron asks, the question pulling Harry out of the swamp of regret and self-loathing he was all too happy to wallow in.

Draco, Harry wants to go back to Draco, wants to fix this, somehow. 

He wouldn’t be welcome. That’s why he doesn't know for sure where Draco is; Draco didn’t tell him because he didn’t want Harry to follow him. Harry got the message loud and clear and he will respect Draco’s wishes (for once, Harry can do the decent thing and not violate Draco, just this one time).

“Alright then, I’ll take you to our flat, and we’ll see from there.” Ron doesn’t usually narrate everything he does. Harry supposes that is for his benefit, something to fill the silence and give him something to think about that isn’t what kept him shut in here for — a week? Has it been a week? Harry still doesn’t know; he still doesn’t care, though, so that's fine.

Ron throws the floo powder into the fire (since when is there a fire? Why is it so cold when there was a fire?) and then looks between Harry and the fire, debating who should go first. Sending Harry in first means he’ll be alone on the other side and could leave before Ron follows, hiding somewhere better from the cruel twists his life has taken. However, Ron also can’t trust Harry to follow after him. Good call — Harry probably wouldn’t. Tough choice. Harry blinks at Ron, lets him make his choice.

“Well, in you go. Unless you wanted to gather some things?” No, no there is nothing left for Harry here.

Harry steps into the floo and lets the fire wash over him.

* * *

Harry doesn’t know if the tea is a nervous habit, something Ron did solely to have something to do and focus on, or if he genuinely believes that tea fixes everything. Either way, Harry gladly accepts the cup pressed into his hands, clutching the warmth against his chest.

“Okay, this is what’s going to happen now.” Ron sits down on the chair next to Harry, both of them looking out into the living room. Harry was afraid Ron was going to sit opposite him, force dreaded eye contact as he expresses his disappointment in Harry. But Ron doesn't. 

Of course he doesn't, he’s a good friend. Ron sits next to Harry, close enough to be undeniably _there_ , to be warm and present, and that they can look at each other, if Harry so wanted. He is also going to give Harry a plan, which is good. Of course it is, Ron is a good friend. 

“I am going to talk for a while, tell you what we know, give you a few options of what to do, try not to throw you into a situation that would be worse than having you cooped up in that house. Sounds good?” 

Sounds perfect. How did Harry deserve a friend like Ron?

Harry nods, not up to talking, as Ron guessed, and takes a sip of his tea. It’s hot enough to burn his entire mouth, fire spreading down his throat and leaving a burning trail. Harry relishes in the feeling and takes another sip.

“First of all, Draco is safe. He is… well, I wouldn't say he is _fine_ — he is processing a lot, apparently, but he is alright. He's staying with Pansy for the time being. She is the one who told us that you were having a big, ugly fight, and that Draco doesn’t plan on returning to the house for a bit. We, that is Hermione and me, hadn’t heard from you for bit, which was odd because we would have expected you to still be fuming in rage after a fight like Pansy described, but we decided to give you a bit more time before we were going to worry.” Ron pauses, frowning, probably regretting they waited as long as they did. Harry should say something to reassure him , to let him know it wasn't his fault. Harry doesn't. 

“Days went by where you didn’t answer our calls, and we got worried. Pansy didn’t tell us any of the details of the fight, said it’s for Draco or you to tell, so we had no idea what had happened, and how you were. I just wanted to check on you, I didn’t plan on this _abduction_ , but, well, it seemed appropriate once I found you.” Fair enough, Harry acknowledges with another nod.

He didn’t even consider that he would worry his friends, that he has people ( _now_ , he has people now) who notice and care when he drops off the face of the earth. Harry should have answered their calls. He doesn't remember hearing them, but he should have answered.

Harry doesn't wallow in self-pity like that, shutting all the doors and drowning himself in darkness, and, while Grimmauld is a very convenient scapegoat, he does have to accept some of the blame. Perhaps Harry can fault Grimmauld for giving him the opportunity, tempting and haunting Harry, driving him ever closer away from sanity and duty, until he fell down into the abyss, to splash around in the guilt and loathing like he never permitted himself to do. It would have meant death before the war was won, not only Harry's death, but those of countless innocents.

There was no other choice for Harry but to fight through the heaviness, to approach problems with the arrogant certainty that he could defeat them. Sink or swim.

Harry never knew how good it felt to sink.

Things didn’t matter anymore, in that room with no time and nothing but echoes. Harry could just… exist, floating in the vast emptiness.

Until Ron yanked him out, and Harry realised he hadn’t been breathing.

Things are more difficult in the harsh light of day, and Harry didn’t even _do_ anything, yet. It was Ron, all Ron, who did the work. He pulled Harry out, herded him onto his couch, and pressed the tea into his hands, filling the silence so Harry’s feet stayed on the ground.

“That much on the current situation; everyone is confused, but safe. You can stay here for a bit, or I can pack a few things and go with you back to Grimmauld, but I refuse to leave you alone, again. You don't have to tell me anything, or Hermione, for that matter, and we would completely understand if you don’t want to talk about it. Although, it would probably help, you know, to talk about things and get an outside perspective. Or not, if that is what you want! I could just listen — that’s fine, too. Point is, whatever you need, Harry. We are going to take care of you now.” Ron smiles at him, encouraging and supportive, and Harry is grateful, he is, it’s just… he doesn't think he deserves it.

Ron said it himself — they don’t know what happened. They have no idea because, apparently, Parkinson didn’t tell them. Which is weird, as Harry expected to be judged and haunted for what he did to Draco, not to be pardoned and actively helped. 

Is keeping his secret help, though? It doesn’t feel like help, granting him all the things Harry doesn’t deserve anymore. Perhaps that is her plan— to make Harry feel bad about the life he has, make him question everything, and be corroded by doubt and loathing. She needn’t have bothered in that case; Harry was taking pretty good care of that himself.

It’s harder here, it _hurts_ , but Harry can’t stop. The light revealed the sword over his head, the sword of Damocles hanging high and cruel, taunting him. Has it been there this whole time? Splendour and power for the price of constantly watching his own back, the burden of responsibility. Only, in Harry’s case, he never wanted the splendour and power, and the enemies he needs to watch are his own feet, taking him down a path he didn’t want to go.

He can’t go on like this. Harry can’t sit here, drink Ron’s tea, and make requests for dinner, lying and deceiving him. Harry should have told him sooner, should have told him when Ron ran in that door looking for his friend. Harry should have told him then what kind of person he found, and Ron could have left him in the darkness to rot. That would have been easier for everyone in the long run.

Ron is working his way through the pantry, calling to Harry about what they have and what he could make with it, asking his opinion. Harry isn’t listening. Ron's cheerful busyness is drowned out by the wrongness of it all, by Harry’s guilt.

He needs to tell Ron. There is no way around it. Harry needs to look Ron in the eyes and see the judgement there, face the consequences of his actions.

(He couldn’t do that for Draco, who deserved to be listened to more than anyone else. Instead, Harry yelled and hurt him, proved himself guilty before he even acknowledged the verdict. Draco deserved so much better than what Harry gave him.)

“— then we would have to wait for Hermione though, she would never forgive me if we ate that without her. Let’s see, what do we have that’s quicker —” Harry can’t bear it anymore, he needs the sword to drop.

“I raped him.” The words, small as they are, feel too big in Harry’s mouth.

There is something about saying things out loud, something that makes them real and tangible and heavy. Harry raped Draco, he’s said it aloud now, even when, before, his mind cowered under the thought of it.

Harry feels a perverse pride at being able to say it. It’s strange — pride without any of the joy usually so closely bound into it. Instead, the feeling is laced with bitterness, acid, blooming and spreading and tainting him. Making him stronger. What’s the saying — what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger? Harry’s always hated that. What a stupid thing to say, as if that even matters right now, being strong, when it also means being alone. They also say there’s strength in numbers, which Harry personally always preferred.

Not that it’s relevant, a distraction in well-trodden paths of his mind, winding up and down in familiar waves, just exciting enough to keep most of his attention.

Ron doesn't say anything. Fair enough, Harry doesn’t know what to say either. Well, except the obvious, the wretched, miserable, obvious.

“I raped him. Draco. My husband. That is why —” why what? Why he ran away? Why their relationship was more doomed than Harry knew? Why Harry is the perfect Black heir, dark and twisted and the literal scum of the earth?

“I don’t believe you.” Ron, loyal and naive, determined to see good in Harry.

Ron explained it to him once, this fierce protection against any ill whispers. They were both very drunk, reminiscing upon the Good Old Times before everything went to hell, and then better again, ostensibly. It was their vicious fight in 4th year, when Ron didn't believe him, and Harry didn’t try hard enough to convince him. Ron said he never wanted that to happen to them again, ever. And because Harry is kind of bad at recognising when people are just a bit too pigheaded to admit they care, avoiding future disasters of that sort is Ron’s responsibility.

“Ask Parkinson, then, perhaps you’ll trust her word over mine, seeing how _cosy_ you got.” That is the opposite of what Ron meant, Harry is well aware, but he can’t help it. Ron won’t listen to reason, won’t accept whatever Harry tells him because it doesn’t fit with the picture he has in his mind. 

If Harry wants to convince him, wants to confess to his crimes in all their shocking depth, Ron first has to believe him capable. There is no way for that to happen, unless Ron experiences it for himself.

It’s not like it’s hard, tapping into that darkness Harry never admitted to seeing. For the longest time, Harry blamed it on being formed into a Horcrux, called it the shadow of Voldemort’s soul. The simple truth is that Harry is human, and that humans are capable of great cruelty. All humans, each and every one of them, not just those who lean into it. The darkness is a part of Harry, always has been, and now something in him broke, and it spilt over, coating his lungs and organs, infesting his breath and flowing through his blood, being pumped into his brain.

“You are in a mood.” Ron frowns at him, thoughtful contemplation and disappointment the only reaction Harry can get out of him. Huh, that is not what Harry expected.

Harry had prepared himself for a lot, denial and pretending the words didn’t hit him, the crumbling look of pain denied expression, screaming and defences, reflections, retorts, faked sudden loss of hearing — Harry could have dealt with it all. It would not have been _good_ ; it would have hurt, and Harry would hate himself a little bit more, but there would be the same kind of sick satisfaction at speaking a truth so long ignored.

What Harry was not prepared for, however, was to be treated like a child throwing Lego about in a fit of temper. Ron doesn’t look at him with the annoyance reserved for screaming brats that everyone (including the screaming brat themselves) wishes would just go to sleep already, but it isn’t far off. The difference is that Ron makes Harry feel ashamed for the way he is acting, reminding him that he should know better.

How did Ron _do_ this?

“We are going to talk about this, if you want, but I refuse forgone conclusions. You can tell me what happened, and what you think about it, and I will be your common-sense filter. Okay?” Ron phrases it like a question, but Harry knows he doesn’t have a choice in the matter. If he wants to talk about this to Ron — and that he must, because if he doesn’t talk about it to _someone_ ,it’s going to eat him alive — they will do it on Ron’s terms.

Fair enough; Harry probably isn’t in the right mind to judge how these things are best handled. As evidence shows, Harry is pretty bad at handling anything with responsibility (then again, he also saved the world, which was most likely the right thing to do, so perhaps it’s just recent events casting a shadow).

( _Just_ recent events — when did raping Draco become a _just_?)

(Using his stance as hero and saviour to excuse less glorious deeds — Harry never wanted to be that kind of person, the kind that abuses power and influence to make themselves feel better about the horrible people they have become. Harry literally _saved the world_ , there is nothing he can’t get away with, he always knew that. He always feared that.)

“Good, I’m glad you are willing to talk about this.” Ron smiles at — no, Ron _beams_ at Harry, before he realises how utterly inappropriate that is and dims it down a few suns. Harry narrows his eyes at him. What is going on?

Harry doesn’t remember Ron being this … knowledgeable, when it comes to conflict resolution and trauma treatment. He wasn't, Harry _knows_ he wasn't, because Ron grew up with six siblings, and one would think that taught him how to negotiate, but, in reality, it only taught him to play dirty and not to hesitate when there is something he wants. The Ron Harry knows never would have been able to commandeer things like this — not this smoothly, not this sure of himself.

Harry has the horrible suspicion that he has Parkinson to thank for that growth. Her being Draco’s friend, she hangs out at Grimmauld a lot — hung out, now, Harry guesses — and sometimes, the house would to do this nifty little thing, letting sound carry further than physics alone would have done. Harry doesn’t want to know what kind of things Draco overheard from conversations Harry had, but, for Harry, it meant the occasional update on Parkinson's seduction. He also heard the jokes and the comments on past relationships, the bets made on how long this one will last, the congratulations. It made Harry sick and angry, and he could prove absolutely none of it, which only made it worse.

Interspersed by cruel laughter as his source might have been, Harry did learn some useful things, too. He learnt of the negotiations, of the three of them sitting down to talk and flesh out rules, discuss how they were going to attempt this. Harry didn’t believe a single word Parkinson said, solely on the account that it’s _Parkinson_ , and he was too scared to ask his friends, but some of the things Parkinson talked of must have been true. Things concerning Ron, specifically, like the claim that he acted as mediator between Parkinson and Hermione. That, too, Harry can believe all too easily. He just doesn’t see why Hermione would ever want to talk to Parkinson after a fight bad enough Ron needed to stop it.

It doesn’t matter. Harry made certain to know as little as possible about their flirting, relationship — whatever they want to call it — and now he basically knows nothing. _Except_ that Parkinson did, indeed, bring Hermione and Ron closer, _except_ that she refuses to leave now that her job is done, as Harry hoped she would. He is going to have to talk to her, isn’t he? Tell her not to hurt his friends if she doesn't want Harry to hurt hers.

Then, Harry remembers that he already did, that _that_ is the whole reason he is here, and he feels sick again. Why didn’t Parkinson threaten to strangle him with his own intestines should he hurt Draco? Harry would have been more careful, more aware that Draco can, in fact, be hurt.

“I hurt him, Ron. I hurt him badly.” Ron makes a protesting noise, ready to once again interrupt Harry and tell him to focus on the facts, not his assumptions of what they mean. But Harry doesn’t have to assume, he knows exactly what happened, knows exactly what he did to Draco. “Please, Ron, just let me talk. You can say it all when I’m done.”

(If he still wants to, that is.)

Ron nods at him, all the endorsement he is going to give. That’s fine, Harry doesn’t need more, he just needs to know that Ron will listen as he confesses his sins.

“As I was saying, I raped Draco. I expected certain things because we were married — they call that marital rape, don’t they? Demanding sex founded solely on a signed piece of paper, which never even mentions sex. Well, I suppose there was the consummation required by old law, but even as invasive as that was, it doesn’t mention anything on what happens _after_ that. I suppose the pressure to produce an heir takes care of things after that. For me, it was the pressure of Grimmauld still not welcoming me, despite every box being checked. We were leading a perfect marriage — if you only spared it a superficial look, which is all I was willing to give it. Normal, that is, except for the lack of sex.” It took Harry a few days of seclusion, at the mercy of Grimmauld’s mood and nothing to occupy his mind but the marriage echoing all around him, but he figured out why Grimmauld wasn’t welcoming: the house was still very firmly Draco’s back then, and everything that didn’t make Draco happy had to suffer. Simple as that. Harry would only have needed to make him smile, be a good husband.

“Looking back now, it’s obvious Draco wasn’t thrilled with the idea of regular sex. He got all weird and cagey, silent. You don’t know him well enough to realise how bad a sign that is, but I should have recognised it. I didn’t, though, and he didn’t hesitate when he agreed. That’s the thing that confuses me — Draco never said no. I made sure to ask, to check if he was okay, because I knew I was the only partner he’d ever had, and I didn’t want to pressure him into anything. Can you believe the irony of that? I was so anxious to make sure he was fine with the details of what we were doing that I didn't stop to ask if he was alright with the general idea. I thought it was prudishness, prim and proper, stuck somewhere in Victorian times. I never would have guessed that it was revulsion.

“Anyway, I talked him into basically having sex whenever I wanted. I talked about Grimmauld and our agreement to do whatever necessary to appease it, but, really, I just wanted him. I wanted to fuck Draco again, so I asked, and when he didn’t immediately agree, I asked again, and I asked and asked until he gave in.” That is what shocks Harry the most of his actions — the sheer refusal to accept anything but a clear no, best delivered with an in-depth explanation and analysis on what exactly is causing Draco to hold back. Between these two of his options, Draco might as well not have had a choice at all.

“It took me entirely too long to realise Draco didn’t trust me. It seems laughably obvious now — of course Draco didn’t trust me! I was just that sleazy guy violating him, tying him up in the deals we struck. I thought we had something good, that we might genuinely grow to… grow to _love_ each other. I could see the future like that, could see meeting Draco’s friends and parents, finally burning down the kitchen when we got too ambitious for our miserable cooking skills, and perhaps, if I dared to think that far into the future, remodelling a few of the useless parlours and guest rooms into nurseries.” Harry would have asked Draco to draw up some plans, they would have bickered over colours and what kind of toys to get, debated the use for a nursery at all because Harry would be loath to let any child out of his sight, at least in the first few months, probably years. The child, _their_ child, would sleep in their bed, safe and warm between the both of them. Depending on how many children Draco would have agreed to, they might have had to buy a bigger bed to fit everyone.

Harry never wanted anything more than needing to buy that bed. Draco would have grumbled about it, would have complained about not getting any sleep anymore with all the tiny people in their bed, but he also would have hidden a tiny smile and allowed their children absolutely any of the blankets they wanted, making Harry carry them all.

“It couldn’t last. I had been steadily ignoring all the signs that there was something _wrong_ , that Draco was keeping something from me. I finally figured it out when he joined us for movie night. He brought Parkinson and didn’t tell me, and they looked so comfortable and close — I got jealous, there was shouting, and then he confessed that he invited her because he didn’t trust me to make sure he wasn’t cast out. Things spiralled from there. We should have stopped, should have built our entire relationship anew from the ground, brutally honest in what we wanted.” Harry can’t be sure if that would have helped or if it would have damned them to a slower death, but it’s the only solution he can think of.

It wouldn’t have been _easy_ , things never seem to be easy for them, but they might have stood a chance. Draco would have needed to tell Harry then, when they were calmer and more awake. They still would have fought — it’s too big a break in what Harry thought to not fight over — but fights don’t necessarily have to be bad. They could have had a _productive_ fight, both of them getting things off their chest and draining their feelings to collapse into exhausted reconciliation.

“Instead, we moved on as before, until Draco snapped. We fought, I think, I don’t know anymore. That is when I realised, when all the odd pieces fell into place. I was buried under that revelation, completely dumbfounded. I don’t remember what I said or did, but it was bad enough to scare him away.. You know the rest.” Harry feels exhausted, flayed raw with his faults splayed out in the open like that. 

Summed up, his marriage was not nearly as successful as Harry dared to hope.

“I was right, then,” Ron says, nodding to himself, as if Harry confirmed his answer for a paper he was writing, far too casual for the things Harry revealed.

“How were you _right_? Did you always guess I would grow into an inconsiderate prick who takes what he wants with no regard for other people?” He doesn't _think_ that is the answer, but it’s the only thing Harry confirmed. Or perhaps it’s the giant crush on Draco that Harry developed, which came as a surprise to him, but Ginny insisted it was predictable and well-known. Unlikely that Ron meant _that_ , though, which brings him back to the violent creep theory.

“No, because that isn’t what you did. I did suspect, however, that you are grossly oversimplifying things. And, I was right, you are.” Ron is very pleased with the correctness of his assessment and very grim for the matter of it, which leads to a disconcerting expression on his face, caught between pride and misery. Harry doesn’t like it.

“Nothing about this is simple, Ron!” Harry winces at his outburst, tea sloshing over his hands and soaking his clothes.

For the first time, Harry is actively grateful that Ron only gave him a pitying look when everyone was out buying furniture and appliances for their new place and Harry suggested getting _magic_ cups that keep anything in them at the perfect temperature. Apparently, Harry still sometimes has the tendency to behave like a tourist in the wizarding world, fawning over the most normal things and falling for the biggest trash, taking his picture with everything to make the moment immortal, and then forget about it in some dusty box on a high shelf.

“It really isn’t, no. This is one hell of a mess, including, but not limited to, the question of blame.” Getting Ron to concede that much should feel like more of a victory than it does. Perhaps because, if you think about it, Ron didn't actually agree with Harry. Doesn't he understand what Harry is saying?

“Seriously? It’s looking pretty clear to me.” Maybe Ron needs to see a memory, needs to see Draco’s face when he told him the truth. Ron couldn’t possibly be this stubborn if he heard the malice in Draco’s voice, the disgust and hurt and anger and —

“That is because you are a self-sacrificing idiot with a self-imposed demand for omniscience. From what you are saying, what happened was definitely bad, and it’s good that you acknowledge that, but it wasn't solely your fault. Malfoy played his part, as well; he chose how to act and what to tell you — he isn’t innocent in the matter.” Ron is infuriatingly calm, especially in contrast to Harry, whose blood is already boiling again after just being doused in lukewarm tea. Ron manages to sound perfectly dull and reasonable as he — wait, did he seriously say that?

“Are you saying this is _his_ fault?” None of this has been going as Harry expected it would, what with Ron's blasé demeanour and Harry’s unexpected urge to prove himself exactly as dirty and rotten as he feared to be, but this one steals the show. 

Harry knows what he did, knows it very well, and he won’t stand for Ron absolving him of his crimes at the cost of heaving them onto Draco.

“Of course not, I'm just saying that things are more complicated than your conclusions allow.” Finally, Ron shows signs of life behind the placid smiling. Good, it was unnerving. Harry immediately feels better for seeing it. “You said you asked for his consent, tried your best to make sure he was comfortable? That’s all anyone can do, Harry. It’s not your fault that Malfoy lied to you.”

That… that sounds reasonable, kind of. It still feels wrong, though. 

It feels like Harry should have known better than to take anything Draco said at face value, like he should have heard what Draco _didn’t_ say. Which is ridiculous, Harry knows that, but he can’t help feeling like he took advantage of whatever problem Draco was having. There are two kinds of people in these stories, the scumbags that don’t care, and those who listen, those who heard the hitch in their voice and saw the hesitation in their eyes — yep, Harry reads too much trashy romance.

Ron, who _doesn't_ read questionably realistic love stories in his free time (when even would he, he is living his own bad novel), needs to serve as Harry’s voice of reason here. It’s a good thing they’ve had a few years to establish this pattern, and Harry’s instinctive reaction to Ron telling him what to do is no longer to do the exact opposite. Ron’s advice has served him well enough in the past, a tried and tested method leading mostly to good results. That’s why Harry kept asking, that’s why Harry should listen to him.

Usually, Harry likes his advice more.

“Yeah, I guess. But it was so obvious! If I had paid more attention —” Harry could have easily gone on about things he should have noticed, spilt all the expectations he _knows_ to be unrealistic and made a delusional fool out of himself, but Ron thankfully cuts him off.

“No, seriously, Harry, this isn’t your fault. You trusted Malfoy to be honest and tell you the truth and you acted accordingly. You are far better than you give yourself credit for.” Ron is painfully earnest in his reassurance, looking at Harry with the utter conviction that Harry would never knowingly hurt someone — not this deep, not even someone he once considered a friend.

Ron is wrong, of course. Harry wouldn't have survived the war if he weren't a bit more ruthless than that. Even without the excuse of a war hanging over them, Harry knows he wouldn’t hesitate for a second if someone were stupid enough to threaten his friends, his family. 

Harry couldn’t pin down when he started to count Draco among them, but he does, and he hurt him anyway.

Blindly trusting as Ron might be, Harry can’t argue with his logic. Well, he probably could. Harry once argued against _gravity_ because he enjoyed the horror he was inspiring in Draco; this one would be easy in comparison. Harry doesn’t _want_ to argue with Ron.

What Ron is saying sounds perfect, the right amount of excuse and responsibility, not making him look bad by either running away or running ahead too enthusiastically. Harry clings to that, tries to make himself believe it.

“I should just say that I did my best and shrug it off?” That doesn’t feel right, even if Harry could internalise it as the truth it probably is. They can’t just keep silent on it and pretend things are fine, can they? That’s not a marriage Harry wants to lead, if he even still has one.

“You should talk to Malfoy.” Ron shuts Harry’s protest down before he can fully articulate his problem. It’s not that he doesn’t _want_ to talk to Draco — Harry wants this resolved and neatly packed away more than anything — but it will be difficult, and it will hurt, and he doesn’t think he can quite face the open disgust on Draco’s face yet. “I know you don’t want to, it’s not the kind of conversation anyone _wants_ to have, but you need to anyway. Knowing where you stand before you go talk to him will help.”

That might be true. Or it might be completely useless, because Harry only wants Draco back and to be _better_ this time. He doesn’t care about the rest, about his own morals or dignity or if this will stay a bloody sharp knife digging into his lungs, as long as Draco learns to trust him, and they can make their way back.

He doesn’t say any of that to Ron; Harry has the feeling he wouldn’t approve. Instead, he makes a vague humming noise, to be interpreted anyway Ron chooses.

Ron doesn’t seem to know what to answer to that, or perhaps he is giving Harry time to process what he said, but Harry appreciates the following silence in either case. He has a lot to think about.

Well, not a lot. In the end there is only two things Harry absolutely needs to know: why Draco never told him, and if there’s any way to save this weird, wondrous relationship they fought so hard for (or Harry did, for his part, at least).

He needs to talk to Draco.

“Did he say why he didn’t want to have sex with you?” Ron suddenly asks, causing ripples in the determined silence that settled Harry. For such a stupid question, too. Harry glares at him.

“He didn’t have to, there are too many reasons. He either hates me —” Ron cuts him off before Harry can finish the sentence, talking over him with a sudden urgency.

“Did he _say_ that? Because I know I never actually saw you together, but you talked about him a lot, you know? And Pansy, would sometimes complain about having to listen to Malfoy all smitten and fawning — it doesn't sound like he hated you.” Ron looks at him seriously, imparting great wisdom. Harry doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he already knew, that it was an admittedly pathetic attempt at lifting the mood through humour, dry as it might have been.

It’s nice to hear anyway, even if Harry didn't doubt it. He remembers that first night they shared a bed, both of them only there because they lacked alternative. Harry remembers how exasperated he was because he wanted to sleep, and he remembers getting something much better. 

Draco might have confessed to not trusting him, but Harry never doubted what they said that night.

Harry doesn’t want to share that memory, irrationally greedy and possessive of it as he is.

“Fine, so he maybe didn’t hate me and just thinks I'm too ugly to touch, what is your point?” Dwelling on how Draco doesn’t hate him (didn't hate him but does now? Harry doesn’t know, he _doesn’t know_ ) is the last thing he wants to do right now. 

Dwelling on _anything_ about Draco doesn't help gathering the resolve needed to… do whatever needs to be done on this situation. Talk, probably, which brings forth logistic questions that would smother Harry if he let them.

“Did you meet Charlie's boyfriend last Christmas?” Ron asks, completely out of nowhere. Did Harry miss something?

“That twat that used his feral dragon tamer charm to hook up with some girl in a bar and barely even tried to conceal it?” As it so happens, Harry could probably hunt the man down if he had to. He can’t decide if that is a good thing.

Harry is sure that’s another relict from the war, memorising people down to the last inch, absorbing all the details in case you need them. New people, especially, unknown entities that are either friends or foes but need to be catalogued in either case. It’s important to keep track of people, those that could betray and hurt you. Going by what Harry witnessed, arsehole boyfriend lives dangerously.

“Yeah, that one. Turns out he wasn’t cheating so I didn’t have to make him regret ever leaving Romania. They have… an arrangement, I guess you could call it. An open relationship, because Charlie is ace and doesn’t often want sex, and Lucas does want it, and, apparently, grows cranky when he doesn’t get laid regularly. Which, trust me, is more than I wanted to know about my brother’s sex life, ever. But they figured something out that allows them both to get as much or as little sex as they want while staying together. It wasn’t easy, but they love each other, so they made it work.” Ron nods, done with his little advertisement for open relationships (is that a _hint_?), and waiting for Harry to do _something_ , expectation growing heavier with every moment that Harry doesn’t do whatever he was supposed to.

“Fascinating, good for them. I have no idea what you just said, or why you told me any of this because, frankly, I never wanted to know about your brother’s sex life, either.” Harry thinks he’s covered all the bases here, said all that there is to say. Plus, he made Ron laugh, which is always a good sign.

Even with Ron being a man who laughs freely, Harry never quite stopped being proud of his ability to make him laugh. It makes Harry feel warm; Ron’s laughter is infectious, even when Harry isn’t the cause of it.

“I don’t know, mate, mutual suffering?” That has to be the most stupid reason — actually, it's not all that stupid after all. 

Of course, now Harry has to find something equally horrible to share to haunt Ron's thoughts, keeping an equilibrium here is important. Ron has a point, though, and he is still laughing, and Harry still feels warm and can breathe easier for it, the weight of his conscience not as pressing on his friend’s happiness, and then Harry is laughing, too.

It’s good to laugh again. Harry doesn’t think he has laughed for ages.

That’s not true, Harry knows for that it’s not true. He remembers when Draco tried to make pie — from scratch because, as he icily informed Harry, people who use pre-made mix are lazy heathens and shouldn’t bother to begin with — and they both ended up covered in flour, Draco constantly sneezing from it and glaring at Harry like it was somehow _his_ fault (fine, it was, indeed, Harry’s fault, but Draco couldn’t prove it, so it doesn’t count). Harry laughed then, too, and didn’t stop for a long time.

Fuck, Harry misses him so much.

“Okay, seriously,” Ron holds up his hands, trying to quell the laughter enough to talk. “I’m telling you this because I think it might be relevant to your situation. I think you should be aware of the non-conventional forms a relationship can take.”

There is an uncomfortable emphasis on that last part, a meaningful look that Harry doesn’t think is solely meant for his marriage. His mind helpfully supplies pictures of Hermione and Parkinson, heads bent together over one of the books Hermione spent months scouring every library and forgotten bookstore for, one she was so excited over that she didn’t let any of them talk about anything else where she could hear for an entire week. But there she sat, the book open on the table, staring into Parkinson's eyes. Parkinson, loath as Harry is to admit it, was staring right back at her.

It was all sickly sweet and heart-warming, and Harry didn’t know what to think of it, but he didn’t accidentally drop one of the books to separate them, as was his gut instinct.

Unconventional forms of relationships, Ron said, and Harry feels like a wanker. It’s not the polyamory he has a problem with, he would request Ron punch him in the face if that were his problem, but _Parkinson_. 

Perhaps that isn’t too much better, just a different prejudice.

“What, you think Draco is… ace, you said?” Harry asks, because he can’t apologise for being a stubborn bastard and making his friend’s life more difficult over Parkinson than it already was. There was too much humility here today; Harry doesn’t think he could bear much more of it.

Ron — the brilliant, compassionate, far too forgiving friend that he is — nods in acknowledgement of all the that Harry didn’t say, smiles in a silent reassurance that he understands, that it’s alright, and answers the question.

“Asexual, yes. I think it’s a possibility that would more aptly explain the facts. Perhaps Malfoy didn’t want sex with you because he doesn’t want sex with anyone.”

That… Harry doesn’t know what to do with that, but it sounds fake. It sounds completely absurd and naive — Ron must be joking! Surely, he must!

Is he? He doesn’t _look_ like he is joking, and Harry should know. He’s planned enough pranks with Ron, shared secret laughs and subtle looks, to know what he looks like when he is amused. Ron is dead serious.

“How can you _not_ want sex? And, why wouldn’t he tell me?” Back to that very simple, very persistent question of _why_.

“I don’t know, Harry. You should really ask Malfoy all of this, it’s just a theory.” Right, _just a theory_. As if Ron would have said anything if he wasn’t sure, not with Harry’s entire life and hope on the line. He does have a point, though — Harry desperately needs to talk to Draco.

“I don’t think I can talk to Draco again yet.” The prospect is daunting, all the more intimidating for what Harry might learn, what he might discover to never have known about his husband.

“What if you write it down? Address a letter to him, purely hypothetical, and say all the things you want to say to him, ask your questions. It could be practice, ordering your thoughts before presenting them to Malfoy.” Ron is conspicuously casual in this idea, going so far as to inspect his nails to avoid looking at Harry (a gesture he is well familiar with from Draco when he doesn’t want to broadcast how invested he is; perhaps Ron picked it up from Parkinson?), and if Harry hadn't been so busy thinking about the possibility of that letter, he might have questioned Ron's motives more.

As it is, though, writing things down does sound like it might help, shifty presentation or not.

“Yeah, I might do that, actually.” After all, it’s not like Harry is short on things to say. 

  



	20. Chapter 20

“Is this your attempt at giving me therapy and apologies again? Because I already told you that I don't need therapy, and that it’s fine.” Draco glares at the parchment handed him with the vague instruction to ‘write a letter.’

It’s the good parchment, too, heavy and structured, the kind used for important documents, or to impress (or, if you fancy yourself _artistic_ and _talented_ , for exploits into the world of words and poetry). Draco doesn’t like the implication of Pansy sacrificing her good parchment, even if she uses it rarely, mostly only to send insulting notes with her harbinger of evil to whoever was unfortunate enough to anger her. If Pansy is giving this to him (the whole staple, not a few single sheets), that means this is more important to her than letting incompetent fools know they should quit their job and take care of their personal education for a while.

Lately, there is only one thing that fits these criteria: Draco’s minor identity crisis.

“It’s not okay! I told you to get over yourself and have sex with Potter because I didn’t bother paying close enough attention to see that the prospect scared and reviled you — how is that okay?” Considering Pansy isn’t the one whose entire life looks different after just one word, she is taking this pretty seriously. She’s made up her mind already, accepted the label as a truth that must always have been there and committed herself fully to helping Draco get there, too.

Draco isn’t sure he wants to be there. It’s one thing to suspect that you are different, to feel like you are missing something that everyone else doesn’t need an explanation for, but having this fear confirmed? That’s quite a different thing. It might be a good thing, as Pansy is determined to make it, or it might be a very bad thing. Draco doesn’t know, his feelings muddy and conflicting, and his mind running off into various directions, none of the threads landing on a satisfactory ending.

There is something Draco knows with absolute certainty, though: he is asexual, and he wishes he weren't.

Things would be so much _easier_ if he weren't. He could have avoided this whole crisis, could have used his time better than questioning and wondering and reading seedy books to understand what he is supposed to be feeling. Instead, Draco is lost, floating in that new term and all its variations and shades, trying to form an opinion.

He envies Pansy her quick decision-making on the matter, shouting her approval for anything that goes against the norm. But she reached the wrong conclusion here, blaming herself for not seeing it sooner, for not telling Draco about this possibility one of the many times he asked about her opinion and experiences. It’s nonsense, of course, how should she have known, but Pansy doesn't listen when Draco tells her not to be too harsh on herself.

“Because, Pansy, brilliant as you might be, you cannot read my mind. I didn’t tell you of my aversion and so you gave your advice based on not even half of the facts I was sure of, at that point. That is _my_ fault, if you are desperate for someone to blame. I asked vague questions and didn’t share my own thoughts; you had barely anything to go on. I think you did wonderfully, considering how reticent I was about sharing my… condition.” Reassuring Pansy in her unnecessary guilt has taken quite a lot of Draco’s attention, which he is equally grateful for and annoyed by.

On one hand, there are only so many ways Draco can tell Pansy to stop worrying and not take blame for things that aren’t her fault (it’s not usually a problem, Pansy is very skilled in slipping responsibility for the things she _did_ do) before it gets boring and repetitive. This point has been long crossed.

On the other, it means Draco doesn’t have too much time to think about his newest revelation. The time Draco does have is plenty already, leaving him at the end of all kinds of twisted and tangled thoughts, hurting even as they wrap him up warm and tight in the knowledge that he isn’t alone, that there is a word for what he feels. If Draco is broken, at least he isn’t the only one.

“See, this is exactly why I worry! It’s not a _condition_ , you aren’t _sick._ You are a sex-repulsed asexual with a surprising libido that makes you feel uncomfortable at times — yes, I read your notes, you didn’t think a few wards would keep me away, did you? I read the books Theo brought, too. I’m sorry if you feel this crossed a line, but you can’t afford to shut me out at this state, clearly. This is important, Draco, for you to properly understand yourself. I don’t want to do any of the actual work for you, I don’t think I could if I tried, but I will be sure that you don't use this information to hurt yourself more. This is a _good_ thing. You desperately need a good thing.” Pansy uses her best scolding voice, the one she reserves for special cases. She has been using it a lot these last few days.

Draco doesn't understand what she wants from him. That’s not right — he knows exactly what she wants. Pansy wants him to celebrate, wants him to be excited and proud and make the world more interesting and open by standing up. She wants him to do what he did without thinking once Draco realised he was gay. Not that it was a big deal, or much of a surprise to anyone, but Draco still staged a huge coming out. That is what Pansy wants him to do, the same thing, same pride, just a different flag.

Draco thinks the fact alone that he needs to be _told_ to do that should tip her off to how little interest he has in that happening. Draco doesn’t feel proud, has no desire to share with the world, or wear a pin on his robes for visibility. There is nothing to celebrate here.

It was different when he announced to all the world that he is gay (well, confirmed, as mentioned before — Draco never was subtle enough to make a grand reveal necessary or even possible), because back then he had something to proclaim. He was _doing_ something, feeling things convention would have heavily disapproved of not too long ago. Draco did manage to taunt some of the Hogwarts portraits into murderous rage, shaking their fists at him but unable to do anything more threatening, trapped in frames as they were. (Draco never dared do the same at the Manor.)

What would he even tell them now? _Look at me, I get shaky and weak at the thought of sharing my body with someone and once almost threw up on my husband_? Draco sees this going over splendidly, they would laugh themselves sick.

This new thing, asexuality, it’s defined over an absence, something Draco _doesn't_ feel. No one is impressed by something you _don't_ do.

It only makes you less. Less valuable, less interesting, less human.

“What do you want me to do, then? Do you want me to rejoice at the knowledge that I’m perpetually unable to fit into most of humanity? Do you want me to be happy I now have the certainty that it is, indeed, me culpable for the downfall of my marriage? No sooner had I started to value it that I ripped it apart because I literally _cannot give my husband what he needs_. Tell me, Pansy, how is it _not_ a disease?” Draco didn’t mean to say half of these things, bottled up and bitten down since he was sober enough to realise the implications of what drunk him lauded as the solution to all his problems.

It’s embarrassing, but Draco honestly, quietly, thought there might be a future for him and Harry if he had a word, an explanation. But knowing the official term for what’s wrong with Draco doesn’t change the fact that there _is_ something wrong, and Harry might appreciate the explanation, but, in the end, Harry will want someone not broken.

“Diseases are medical conditions, abnormalities that negatively affect structure or function of an organism. Do you need me to take this apart, or do you see how the term doesn’t apply?” Pansy is as done talking about this as Draco is. This is her no-nonsense voice, for when she doesn’t want any answer except a nod in agreement. It’s always had an unfortunate tendency to drive Draco into hysteria.

“What, you’re trying to tell me it’s _normal_?” That’s absurd. Pansy might be an accomplished liar, but not even _she_ could make this sound convincing.

“I'm telling you normal doesn’t exist. What you are talking of is social convention. I don’t know when or why — actually, perhaps that is to blame on the huge possible consequence of pregnancy and the subsequent responsibility — but sex was elevated into this grand and important thing, instead of just another bodily function, that can be fun if you do it right. There were rules and judgement and expectations attached, who you are allowed to do what with, and when, what counts as _normal_. You know how I despise the word, and this is exactly why. There is no normal, darling, only people filled with anger and insecurity who hate us for being free of their vices. They are too afraid to go after what they want, but that doesn’t mean you should be like them. Why sit next to them and look at the sky with scorn, when you could fly?

“As for the more tangible parts than social constructs, not having sex isn’t going to hurt you. There is no negative affect to anything but your mind, and that is the toxic message from society, the internalised fear of revolting against the rules they try and force on us. The foreign matter you are fighting here isn’t the part of yourself you can finally see clearly, it’s generations of hateful and scared ideology.”

Pansy has a certain flair that allows her to make _anything_ sound glorious. She fills her words with passion and idealism, makes anything sound worth the struggle, the exhausted pride that comes with fighting for a worthy goal. It’s what Pansy does, who she is, for as long as Draco has known her. He’s always admired that about her. In his lesser moments, he was viciously jealous of her attitude.

In the end, it’s simple — Draco is no fighter. He never was, not even when his entire world was threatened to be consumed by darkness. He is a coward, a follower, meekly bowing his head under the boot of someone stronger. He tries not to be, fully aware of how pathetic it is, but when push comes to shove… well, it would probably squash Draco before he found the courage to step out of the way. His awareness of this is the only thing Pansy’s passionate speeches ever sparked in him.

Pansy makes mutiny sound easy, the only logical choice. Draco knows if _he_ were to attempt it, he would fail miserably, crash and burn before neatly falling into the mould destined for him. All fight ever gained him was more pain. Draco isn’t meant to be a fighter, to be loud and rebellious and _do something_.

Perhaps, if there was a way — Draco is good at _not_ doing things. It’s what he did all his life, looking to his parents for orders of what to avoid. Don’t slump in your chair, don’t slur your speech, don’t spend all your time with friends and neglect your schoolwork. Draco knows how _not_ to do something. He just never stopped to think how he, himself, would define those things not to do.

Passive Resistance, he believes they call it. The fact that there is an official name quickly makes his loophole almost as intimidating as getting proactive is. It’s no less scary, no less doomed to fail than carrying flags and shouting about the perceived value of normality. 

Then again, Draco would only have to stop doing a few things, things he never enjoyed doing anyway.

Put like that, Draco thinks it can’t be too hard. It might be fun even — _freeing_.

“What do you want me to write?” It’s a bit ironic, that Draco’s resolution to passivity starts with an act of revolt, even if just against himself and his previous mindset. Pansy is going to be proud. 

* * *

To say that the summons came as a surprise would be a lie. Draco’s expected this since the moment he told his mother about their engagement, and he’s honestly a bit rankled that it took her this long to consider testing if Harry even _deserves_ to marry Draco. He was under the Impression these things should happen a lot quicker.

Granted, Harry is not only the Saviour of Their World but was also, at that point in time, the only official way of getting their hands on Grimmauld. Regardless, Draco would have hoped for a little more overbearing interest and protectiveness. He would have grumbled and moaned, protested that he is old enough to make his own choices — more than aware enough of Harry’s flaws to make it an informed one, too — but, secretly, Draco would have relished it.

The concept, that is — not the physical act of awkwardly watching as his mother takes apart his husband (the best outcome for Draco, by far), or as they bond over brandishing about embarrassing stories Draco did his best to forget. Considering the recent developments, Draco thought the possibility of introducing his husband and parents was finally gone. His marriage is over in all but name, his mother didn’t seem to care before, and his father might not have been aware in the first place — as far as Draco was concerned, his chances to see Harry sweat under his mother’s judgement were a thing of the past.

It stands to reason, and as further proof of the twisted sense of humour the universe forces on them all, that Osbourne would deliver the citation today, just in time to make Draco splutter on his tea. Draco did a brilliant job pretending nothing is the matter with the way his life is developing (hiding, Pansy calls it, and Draco can’t, in good conscience, disagree), but having to face Harry again would blow his painstakingly constructed delusions apart. They aren’t stable to begin with, and Harry is too full of energy and passion for anything half-hearted to exist around him. The pathetic pieces of armour Draco’s pulled up around himself will be snatched off with only one word from Harry.

Perhaps, if Draco is very lucky, Harry will refuse to go. They are getting divorced after all — Draco is pretty sure. Why would Harry go through the excruciating scrutiny when he doesn’t plan on sticking around long enough to taste the benefits?

Yes, Harry will politely decline the invitation due to a sudden drop in relevance, Draco will have tea with his mother, complain about his oaf of a husband and, then, when they are both appropriately put out by Harry’s lack of manners, Draco will present the idea of divorce as a beacon in the dark. After all, who wants to be married to a man like _that_?

Draco does, that's who.

It's also beside the point, however; nothing more than a vaguely annoying inclination that Draco can shut down long enough to drink a civilised cup of tea (or two, or three, or perhaps stay for a well-mannered dinner, entirely depending on how much convincing his mother needs). First the tea, then the divorce and some politely feigned regret over how things have ended, a legal battle over Grimmauld and their fortunes, and then, finally, Draco can have a moment to look at the pile of shards his life has broken into.

“That's a stupid plan.” Pansy’s voice cuts through the moment, startling Draco and making him curse his habit of having his rambling thoughts out loud.

He thinks better that way, putting nebulous ideas into words and seeing how they feel. Draco hoped performing his mind to Osbourne would have the added benefit of that useless owl puffing up, should someone intrude on Draco's solitude. Figures that Draco would forget about Pansy, who is the most likely to appear out of thin air not only because this is her house, but also because Osbourne would maybe preen at her entry — certainly not do the weird growling Draco was looking out for.

“If I wanted your input on this, I would have asked. I would appreciate it if you could take your opinion and —” Draco turns around to face Pansy and tell her exactly what she ought to do with her rude opinion, when he freezes.

It is not Pansy who stands in the doorway, looking extremely unimpressed with both Draco's crisis and the mix-up. Draco should have recognised it at the voice; it didn't sound anything like Pansy.

Hermione Granger. Fantastic. Exactly the person Draco wanted to be judged by when at his absolute lowest.

“You are not Pansy.” Astute observation; Draco’s seldom felt this stupid.

Granger, too, can’t quite believe that he’s said that and raises an eyebrow at him. Draco suddenly understands what Harry meant when he said that Granger had them all whipped, needing only a single expression to get them to do their homework or readjust their priorities in a fashion that seemed more fitting to Granger.

“I’m not, I’m here to see her. You wouldn’t know where she is?” Granger steps fully into the room, throwing Osbourne a few treats but keeping a safe distance to the now happily munching bird. Smart move, desperately pined-after love interest or not — Osbourne doesn’t tolerate people getting close to Pansy and tends to bite when feeling threatened.

“I might, depends on what you want from her.” Draco smirks at Granger's frustrated noise, recklessly leans closer towards Osbourne in a show of power.

Granger either doesn’t notice or doesn’t acknowledge it, which is disappointing but not surprising. Gryffindors, as Draco is painfully aware, don’t appreciate theatricals in anyone but one of their own.

In this particular case, it's not important; the gesture was more for Draco himself, anyway. Granger looks at him like he is a disgusting kind of squirming insect (Draco doesn’t think he deserves that look, he didn’t do anything _recently_ that would warrant it), and he could use a reminder that this is _Pansy’s_ house, and that Pansy is his friend and wants him here. Granger has no say in the matter, little as she might like it.

Reminding Granger of that is much simpler, if not safer, than testing his fate with murderous owls. Draco can force her to tell him about their secret, probably sickeningly sweet plans for the day, making it abundantly clear who holds the power here.

Asking Granger is also more efficient than needling it out of Pansy, who has grown suspiciously vague on details. And, Draco so yearns to know the details.

“We are planning our campaign for the rights of magical creatures, if you must know. In particular, those who cannot speak up for themselves and are thus discarded as undeserving by most of wizarding kind. Pansy has brilliant ideas! Today, we are going to contact potential allies and draft a PSA, Pansy wanted —” Granger cuts herself off, realising she went from answering the question to marvelling at her girlfriend (Draco is convinced they finally got it together enough to make their affection official, as that would explain Pansy's silence on the topic, eager to hoard the details all for herself until she makes a grand announcement). “Do you know where she is or not?”

“I do.” Draco smirks again, because that is what he does, and irritating Granger is entertaining. Right up until she reaches the limit of her tolerance and is willing to enforce that with every measure necessary.

Draco got too close to that limit before and came to regret it — punched by a Gryffindor, mortifying — but he is feeling daring today (also desperate to think about anything that is _not_ the burning ashes of his future), and Pansy would avenge him if necessary, almost certainly. Draco might just have to be prepared to duck.

Granger, as calculated, doesn’t like vague answers. She glares at Draco (her glare is quite impressive; Draco understands what Pansy sees in her, smart and terrifying), making him rethink his reckless pursuit of distraction for a moment before her expression changes to one of befuddlement, trying to figure out how to say whatever it is she wants him to know.

Draco was right, prodding Granger is the best thing you can do to her.

“I have a letter for you. From Harry. I will not deliver this letter unless you tell me where Pansy is.” That is… unexpected.

The delivery could have been smoother —threats usually work better when spoken softly and through the veil of subtlety in situations such as this — but it definitely serves its purpose. Draco would tell her almost anything if it got him that letter.

Most likely it’s the divorce papers, Draco reminds himself sharply. There is no reason to get excited about the confirmation of his most dreaded fears. What else would Harry be sending him — proclamations of regret and unending love? A plea for Draco to come back? Believing that is more delusional than even Draco is comfortable with.

Analysing the letters potential logically and crashing back down into reality does remarkably little to dampen Draco’s desperate need to hold the flimsy thing of parchment. It doesn't matter that Harry probably never so much as saw the letter, that he must have ordered one of his worried minions to contact the lawyers and start the machinery of doom —Draco still wants to read it.

Pathetic, he is well aware.

“One door to the left, you took a door too soon in your haste. Now hand me the letter.” Draco is also well aware that this is not how negotiations are supposed to go. Perhaps it’s a blessing this can barely be called a _negotiation_ , as there is no intricate process to violate here. If it were, though, Draco would not have come out well of it. Rash acting like this usually secures you only one thing: the losing spot.

Granger is shocked by his eager compliance, as well, considering Draco and trying to judge if he gave her wrong directions to mess with her. Draco didn’t, didn’t even think of it until it was too late. But she does throw him the letter, so, whatever Not Negotiating they did here, Draco is alright with it.

Draco watches her walk away, trying to remember why dignity is important and how it prevents him from just ripping the letter open like a giddy child, when Granger stops dead and turns around.

Draco groans aloud. Why won’t she let him read the letter?

“I will say this once, and only once, Malfoy; you hurt Harry. We don't know what you did or why, but you hurt him badly. He is willing to overlook that and take you back with no regard to himself, which is stupid and generous, and you better be sure before you answer him. He deserves better than being the punching bag for your games. When he inevitably asks you if there is any chance that you can move on and ignore what happened, you will apologise. Regardless of your answer, you will apologise for hurting him. And if you decide something and then later on change your mind for some inane reason, I will make certain that you can never answer a question again. Is that clear?”

Granger got scarily close — Draco has no idea when, time and room vanished the closer and more threatening she got — pushing into his personal space and making herself _abundantly_ clear. Draco would have understood her even if he didn’t speak a single word of English; everything about Granger exudes danger, her magic sharp and precise, waiting for the smallest twitch of intention to form the word.

“Harry’s hurt enough. He deserves to be happy now, and I won’t let you screw that up.” Hurting Harry more than he already did is the last thing Draco wants.

Nothing else that she said made sense to Draco — why would _Harry_ be the one crawling back? Harry isn’t the one who failed to live up to the agreements they built their life on. Then again, Granger did admit to not knowing the details of what she is talking about, and it’s better if Draco doesn’t trust her words too far.

Draco doesn’t articulate any of that. Neither his confusion — because it’s none of Granger’s business — nor his embarrassing desire to keep Harry safe from harm. Instead, Draco nods, the gesture to be interpreted as broadly as Granger pleases but definitely an assent, in its rawest form.

Granger nods, too, grim and satisfied with her work. Then, she lets Draco go and steps back out of his space. Granger turns around, either consciously turning her back on him to rub in that Draco is no one to be feared, or simply because that way she moves faster and is thus sooner reunited with Pansy. Whichever might be the case, it was a mistake on her part.

“Hey, Granger,” Draco calls out and Granger stops, waiting, not turning around. That won’t do. Draco waits, watches as she slowly starts moving again, clenching her hands and shifting her weight, trying to hold the silence longer than Draco can.

She won’t, not if she is twitching already.

“I don’t have all day, Malfoy.” The words come out with added bite to make up for the fact that Granger did turn around to say them, conceding the stage to Draco. How _gracious_.

“Pansy is family to me. You don't understand what that means to me, but I can promise that you would regret it should you ever hurt her. The war might be over, and I might have been pardoned, but I was a Death-Eater. You cannot imagine the things I witnessed and learnt, and not with all your reports of survivals and books on dark magic do you have an inkling of what I can — and _will_ — do, should someone hurt my family.” Draco makes sure to speak low, his voice carrying through the room and permeating the air. He relishes in the effect it has; the disquiet Granger tries so hard not to show.

“Don’t forget that, Granger. I can be your worst nightmare.”

Threats are complicated, you don’t want to overdo it on the scary brute, but if you don’t display any strength at all, you might just as well not bother threatening anyone to begin with. Then, there is the matter of what, exactly, to say.

Draco could have drawn out gruesome deaths, could have very calmly explained that he has both the skill and the money to make Granger disappear without anyone saying a word about it, but that wouldn’t have impressed her. They all lived through the war, they are too familiar with blood and gore to make it an effective threat. If you keep things too vague, however, no one will believe that you are serious or have the knowledge to back up what you’ve promised.

Draco has the dubious advantage of being tainted, his arm stained and marked, his past clinging to his name like oil, slick and dark. Draco can’t ever wash himself clean of that, the guilt and the nightmares and the wary looks people shoot him when he is having a bad day or in a mood. Draco's stint as Death-Eater is as much a part of him as his marriage to Harry.

Any Slytherin worth their salt should know when — and, more importantly, _how_ — to draw on those ties.

As he watches Granger retreat from the room to flee into the sanctuary of Pansy’s arms, Draco thinks he managed quite well on this one. Next will be Weasley, who should be easier for being his second try, if nothing else.

Pansy doesn’t usually allow people close enough to hurt her like this, so Draco’s never really had the chance to practice this kind of talk. Probably a good thing — the allusion to his soiled past is the only thing that impressed Granger here, the only thing that gives Draco enough credit to threaten like he did. Had Pansy started giving her heart away sooner, they all would have looked right idiots, trying to make clear that it’s a precious thing and not to be toyed with (Blaise might have been fine, he has enough charisma to make render anything he does charming). At least now they have some weight to throw around.

Enough weight to feel smug and proud for a moment, knowing that Pansy will pretend to hate him for it when she hears. It’s the same with his mother, who Draco would never admit to _wanting_ to scare Harry into making him breakfast in bed for three months, lest Draco feels slightly unhappy and call upon him his mother’s wrath. It’s what family does, how they show they care.

Which, very neatly, brings Draco back to the letter awaiting him. A letter from Harry, an invitation to tea from his mother, and Pansy’s voice in his mind telling him to fight, to stand up for what he wants and to take it.

This will be a disaster. 


	21. Chapter 21

Agreeing to have tea with his soon-to-be-ex-husband and the parents of aforementioned barely-still-husband must have been the stupidest decision of Harry’s life. He never bothered keeping track of his questionable choices, but Ron kindly offered to ask the _Prophet_ to draw up a record for them when he grew tired of Harry’s complaining. Harry declined the offer — just to make sure Ron doesn’t do it in a moment of incorrectly perceived hilariousness — and kept the rest of his complaining silent.

Probably better that way. Turns out, Ron is _not_ a good friend, but a vile double-agent, corrupted by the snake in his bed. He isn’t the least bit repentant about it, either; he wasn’t as he told Harry the _purely hypothetical_ letter he wrote to Draco was delivered by Hermione, and he wasn’t when he smugly presented Harry with a letter from _Draco_ , addressed to him with equally low expectations of it ever going anywhere.

That means several things.

First, Harry was right about Parkinson being the devil incarnate and bringing them nothing but grief.

Second, Harry should have trusted his gut instinct and never written that letter because now he’s fallen for the most hare-brained scheme in existence. The only thing making it marginally better is that Draco fell for it, too.

Third, Draco read his letter.

 _Presumably_ read his letter, that is. Harry has no certain proof that Draco gave it so much as a second glance before tossing it into the fire. Harry doesn't think so, though. At the very least, Draco would have read it to get a peek at Harry’s mind, at his thoughts and feelings over their… dilemma. Whether out of compassion or to be used as ammunition isn’t clear, but Draco definitely did read the letter.

Harry doesn't know how he feels about that. Hell, Harry doesn’t even remember what he wrote — how should he judge how to feel about Draco reading what he doesn't remember?

His letter must have been a mess of shame and hurt and longing, pleading with Draco to come back, to explain. Suddenly, Harry is grateful that he doesn't remember the details, it's much less embarrassing this way.

Harry told the truth, of course, he saw no reason to lie or hide anything since no one was meant to read it, ever, but the truth can be much more embarrassing than the most elaborate lie.

Truth is defined over a raw quality that makes you vulnerable, that is _exactly_ where embarrassment gnaws.

Fourth, Harry read Draco’s letter.

He doesn’t feel any wiser for it. Sure, there was much information for Harry to soak up, but what he read didn't answer questions as much as it posed new ones.

Harry’s since condensed Draco's own mess of a letter to one crucial fact: Draco is, indeed, asexual.

Initially, Harry was relieved to read that, glad that he was right about one thing and that they could talk about it, and Draco could explain what is still very much an absurd idea to Harry, but that hope was disappointed a few words later. Draco is even more confused than Harry as to what exactly that means for him.

To be concrete, Draco thought about what it means for both of them. He thought about what he can give and what Harry would want from him, if he would be able to give that to him anymore. There is talk of Harry wanting to leave because of that, and Draco understanding that.

Draco, so he claims, would leave himself, too.

Reading that broke Harry's heart a bit, and he forced himself to read it thrice to make sure he understood correctly. There was no turning it, though; Draco hates what he is. Worse, he hates it because he thinks _Harry_ hates it, that he can't give Harry a reason to stay with him.

They need to talk about that. It will be awkward and uncomfortable, and Harry dreads it already, but they must talk about it. They need to be clear on what they want out of this marriage — this _partnership_ , for that is what they shared from the moment they struck their first deal — and what they are willing to give. They need to set boundaries.

Harry has no idea how they will accomplish any of that. And, yet, it seems easy compared to the rest they need to talk about, what happened exactly and how Draco didn't tell Harry sooner, _why_ Draco didn't tell him sooner, how that makes Harry feel and if that is justified or selfish when, clearly, Draco is the one going through a crisis — Harry feels faint just thinking about it. Faint and nauseous and, like, maybe, their devious friends had the right idea all along.

Writing the letter was easier than saying any of that to Draco in person (not insignificantly because Draco wasn't there to interrupt him, but they could perhaps make that a rule for their big emotional heart-to-heart), which might be explained by the fact that Harry didn't know he was communicating with Draco in any form at all. If Harry sat down now to write some of what he has been thinking, how he misses Draco but doesn't think he understands him, how he needs more time to process but also feels like he waited too long already — well, Harry couldn't do it.

It all comes back to it being the truth, and the truth hurts simply because that is what the truth does. It doesn't get easier when shared.

If it's going to hurt anyway, so Harry might as well do the decent thing and tell Draco to his face that — well, whatever it is that Harry needs to tell him.

Harry needs to work that one out later, when he isn't drowning in nauseous anticipation of Talking. Right now, all he can think of saying to Draco is that he is an idiot, and that he needs to come home because Harry can no longer live without him.

That's not the sort of message you send via owl, that's what you say while looking into their eyes, holding on to them in case they get overwhelmed and try to run.

Harry doesn't know who between the two of them is more likely to bolt in his scenario: Draco, who cannot possibly have seen this mess coming, or Harry, who built himself up so high to get the words out that he doesn't know what he'll stand on once they are there. Perhaps they'll both run, but at least they will run together (because Harry will still be holding on to Draco; there is no way he'll ever let Draco go again if he gets close enough to keep him).

Even in the — much more likely — case that they don't spontaneously run away together into the rising sun, having Draco breathing and real in front of him would have its advantages. For one, Draco is wonderfully expressive. He doesn't know it, would die of mortification if he knew, but Harry can read him as well as he can read Ron. Better, sometimes, Harry feels.

Harry doesn't always know _why_ he sees what he sees, what inspired the pure joy or what new terribly scandalous thing Harry did to earn Draco’s indignation, but he can interpret what Draco says or doesn’t say as easily as if he came with a lexicon. Harry would give the world to have witnessed Draco read the letter (and, if you could be so kind, another copy of that letter because, really, Harry remembers absolutely nothing of its contents).

It’s probably his wondrous talent to see but not understand that led to him agreeing to have tea with Draco and his mother.

Harry might have been just fine, politely declined and suggested they first try resolving this far away from the judging eyes of Narcissa Malfoy. It’s not enough that she is an intimidating woman in and of herself (Harry witnessed her lying to Voldemort — _the_ Voldemort — for her son, so he seriously doubts there is anything she wouldn’t do for Draco, which makes Harry a potential enemy), but he is also acutely aware of how important she is to Draco. If Harry allows himself the smallest misstep and makes either of them so much as frown, he'd have pretty much sealed his mysterious disappearance, never to be found again. It would be tragic, to be sure, but at least Draco would make for a handsome widower.

Which is nice and all, but Harry would much prefer a handsome husband.

Suddenly, phrased like that, it’s all rather simple.

All Harry’s ever done in his life is fight.

He fought the Dursleys for even the smallest concessions, fought against the worst things they wanted to do to him, ranging from hideous jumpers to broken bones because Dudley wanted someone to practice his punches on.

He fought his destiny and reputation, trying hard to blend in and escape the burden and pain that comes with being chosen.

He fought Draco because they had both already decided they couldn't be friends — but neither could ignore the other.

He fought any kind of authority he encountered, testing their bounds before deciding if they deserve his compliance and trust.

He fought Voldemort, and he fought himself, and he fought when he didn’t know what else to do.

Harry is a fighter.

Sometimes, he wonders if it would be different if he didn’t have a prophecy pushing him on paths he had no time to question, but, in the end, Harry doesn’t think it would have made much of a difference. His fights might have looked different, other foes to beat, but even in an ideal world where his parents never died, Harry is confident he would have found trouble to get into (only aided by the fact that his parents, too, were fighters — looked at like that, there was never anything else Harry could have been, continuing a proud tradition).

Harry fought expectations of the public and of grumpy houses, fought Draco, and, in this context, also himself, again. Harry’s fought for every single thing he has, and he has no intention of letting any of it go. If he has to fight some more to keep them, to keep Draco, that’s what he will do.

The odds aren’t kind to him, skewed decidedly against his favour, but Harry has beaten worse than this. It’s all a question of attitude, the state of mind deciding over what you project yourself to be. Harry is determined, he knows what he is doing, and he has nothing to lose. He will turn this afternoon tea into the most impressive courting and wooing the world has ever witnessed, and he will win his husband back.

“Ron, I need you to convince Parkinson to teach me how fancy people drink their tea,” Harry calls, because even arrogance won’t help him if he blunders invisible etiquettes without it being intentional. It’s time to prepare for battle.

* * *

Harry should have stopped making plans five horrible ideas ago. They never end up particularly detailed or successful, always crashing around him disastrously quickly and only sometimes salvageable, with huge amounts of time and effort wasted. Harry has been aware of his inability to organise as much as a simple grocery run for quite some years now — and it has yet to stop him from settling into brooding and drafting what, at the time, seems to be the sure road to glorious victory. This might finally teach him, drive the lesson home in a way nothing before did.

“I’m apologise, I was under the impression that you both occupy Grimmauld Place 12, The Ancient and Most Noble House of Black,” Narcissa says, one eyebrow raised in what could be either a harmless request for clarification or a polite murder threat. Harry is very familiar with that expression — Draco quirks his eyebrows the same way.

Perhaps not exactly the _same_. Where Draco is concerned, Harry never has problems figuring out if he should run, something he is completely unable to judge in his mother. Thankfully, Draco is here, too, acting as translator between the two of them. Going by the irritation pressed into one quick glance and a vicious stomp on his foot, Harry is barely still safe. Not that Harry needed the warning; he is well aware he almost gave away their ruse with his comment.

The situation is more complicated than Draco had let on when Harry agreed to come here. Apparently, Draco didn’t have the heart to tell his mother about their fight (or didn’t want to part with the details, as Narcissa isn't a woman to be satisfied with half the story) and let her assume they were happy and living together in peaceful matrimony.

Harry liked to have known that helpful bit of information sooner than in front of the Manor, Draco stepping closer than he had been since before their fight, whispering into Harry's ear to play along. Not one second before the door opened to reveal a house elf, who would, no doubt, report everything they saw and heard to their Mistress.

Instead of facing two Malfoys trying to pin him down with his faults and crimes, which is what Harry expected and prepared himself for, he now has to deal with mother and son making polite small talk, and trying to find something intelligent to add so he doesn’t seem dull or disinterested. Every time Harry allows himself a moment to contemplate how to turn this situation in his favour, Narcissa notices, exploiting his carelessness to shoot him a question Harry answers without thinking, revealing all kinds of unflattering things about himself — ranging from his tendency to raid the fridge after nightmares, up unto the admission that he currently sleeps on his best friends’ couch.

Draco stomps on his foot again, reminding him that he still hasn’t answered, and it's getting suspicious. Harry had better come up with something convincing, too; letting Narcissa know that Draco lied about the state of their relationship is simply not an option.

“That is correct, we do. Yesterday was an exception! I was visiting them, and things got late, and I got rather drunk, and instead of stumbling home like that and waking Draco with my clumsiness, I thought it best to sleep it off on their couch.” Harry tries his best to smile under her scrutinising eyes, praying that she didn’t catch the lie.

“Do you make a habit of getting too drunk to find your way home?” Narcissa doesn't blink, eyes piercing through him, sharp and damning. Harry’s really shot himself in the foot with that one, hasn’t he?

He can’t find a second excuse, his mind completely empty. That might be a good thing, Harry thinks slightly hysterically, because he would probably make it worse.

This is it, Narcissa will decide that he isn’t good enough for her son, that he obviously has drinking problems he was trying to hide, and, as everyone knows, it’s only downhill from there. Narcissa is going to discreetly take Harry aside, and very politely, and in the most diplomatic way possible, tell him that he will ask Draco for a divorce, and that Draco is to get anything he wants to help him over the shock.

Harry isn’t going to comply, of course; his entire life is built on _not_ doing what people tell him to do, but it will make things more complicated, nonetheless. Narcissa Malfoy is not a woman you want to cross, and even less so when you are married — and intend to _stay_ married — to her son.

The most disconcerting thing is the small smile curling on Narcissa’s lips, hidden enough that Harry would have missed it if he wasn’t used to Draco’s minimalistic expression of feelings (honest feelings, that is — anything grand is usually acted and over-dramatised, which is amusing and endearing, but will tell you nothing about what Draco is thinking). Even then, Harry is convinced that he is only seeing it because she wants him to see, wants him to know that she is laughing at him.

“Mother, please. You know as well as I do that Harry doesn’t have a drinking problem.” Draco speaks calmly, inspecting the biscuits with critical eyes. Harry stares at him, dumbfounded. Draco _defended_ him; in an absent-minded way, sure, but defended, nonetheless. Harry feels warm at the thought, the reassurance that Draco cares, that he —

“His friends are all Gryffindors, as inept in dealing with the press as he is. The _Prophet_ would have long since known about it and have splashed it on every single page.” Draco smirks at him, finally chooses a biscuit, and eats it in one neat bite.

Well, Harry knows what that biscuit felt like. He still feels warm, though, because the insult doesn’t change what Draco said, and it was mostly fond, as they have taken to being. The message couldn’t be clearer: Draco cares. He wants this to go well, and he wants his mother not to eat Harry alive, and, if Harry plays this right, maybe he will even want to talk to Harry after this without making it a performance.

Time to remind Draco how wonderful being with Harry was, and that he should absolutely do everything to get back to that.

Harry pretends to be offended at his words, scowling and pouting, and, then, when Draco takes up his tea again, Harry quickly — gently — shoves his elbow into Draco’s side.

Draco doesn’t expect the attack, not when they are being adult and well-mannered and impressing his mother, and he splutters, coughing up tea and spilling most of the cup’s contents over his lap. Harry doesn’t bother hiding his smirk. After all, it’s not _his_ fault Draco thought himself safe from revenge. Just because they are sitting on Narcissa's couch doesn’t mean — Narcissa!

Taking revenge on someone when their very intimidating mother is sitting barely a few feet away, watching and judging and probably with a fast-working poison ready to pour discreetly into your tea — that’s the kind of stupid they later call either valour or foolhardy, depending on the outcome.

Harry has always been this kind of stupid, and it’s served him well enough, but all luck has to end eventually. Sitting next to Draco, awkwardly patting him on the back because he doesn’t want to put more weight into it but also can't do nothing, Narcissa suspiciously silent, and Draco gasping for air, Harry is pretty sure he is done for.

There’s nothing for it, though, and Harry might as well go out in grand style.

That’s something Draco encouraged in him, he thinks (Draco likes to claim he _taught_ Harry the value of a good show, and, mostly, Harry allows him the delusion), the slight tendency to go for overbearing dramatics. Surely, now that Draco is suffocating on his own tea — by far the most undignified way to go — he appreciates Harry’s attention during these lessons.

Harry stands up in a burst of energy that would cause a chair, if he were sitting on one, to fall back, which causes Draco to cough up a surprised sound in the midst of his otherwise very even choking noises and doesn’t coax a reaction from Narcissa at all, except her eyes lifting to follow the motion. No matter, Harry will do better, he’ll save Draco, and get a reaction, _and_ make a fool of himself. It will make Draco laugh, of that he is sure, and, right now, Draco’s happiness seems worth dying for.

Heroically standing in starting position, Harry places one hand on the back of the couch Draco is dying on, doesn’t make sure his grip is secure because there is no time, and jumps, propelling himself onto the other end of the couch. No flip, but Harry thinks it rather impressive, regardless.

Next, Harry steps behind Draco, mindful to look calm and in control and like he knows exactly what he is doing, slings his arms around him, and prays to whoever is listening that he saw enough movies (enough _accurate_ movies) to miraculously perform the Heimlich-Manoeuvre correctly.

Draco is spluttering, flailing wildly and struggling in Harry’s grip, making the whole Dashing Hero in Action thing far more difficult than expected. The couch is also considerably higher than Harry calculated, which, paired with Draco’s attempted escape, means Harry has to stand on his tiptoes to reach, determined not to let go. He is trying to save a life here; he can’t stop just because it’s a bit inconvenient!

Harry chances a glance up at Narcissa to get a gauge at how gruesome his death will be. That turns out to be a mistake.

Draco does something weird, twisting and wriggling, and Harry clings to him tighter in response, jumping because, otherwise, he couldn’t keep his hold — and because he doesn't think about the consequences of his feet leaving the ground under erratic circumstances such as this. He finds out soon after.

Draco twists, Harry jumps, and then Harry is dragged over the back of the couch, landing in the world’s most uncomfortable sprawl on the couch.

His situation is precarious, _that_ Harry knows before he even fully realises what his situation even _is_ , one hand trembling under him all that is holding him up. And, then there is Draco, stifling laughter interrupted by hiccoughs, eyes blazing with mirth and grinning like a maniac.

Harry aches with how much he’s missed him.

Draco grabs on to Harry, pulling him upright and close, and Harry can feel the blood rushing through his body, vision a bit spotty as he tries to adjust.

The first thing Harry sees, after the black spots have finished their dance, is Draco. Draco’s face is flushed, his hair a mess, and his composure scattered all over the place. He is breathing hard, sitting so close that Harry can feel it on his face, close enough that Harry, in turn, must blow his frantic breath onto Draco. They are breathing the same air, Harry is pretty sure, which cannot be efficient, but Harry doesn’t care because Draco is here, and he is still holding Harry like he is scared Harry will fall again. Draco is here, and he smiles, and Harry _missed_ him.

Then Draco hiccoughs, and they both break out into breathless giggles.

“Do the two of you need a moment?” Narcissa’s voice cuts through the spell, rudely reminding Harry that they are not alone, and that he can’t keep sitting here, staring at Draco.

Harry is tempted to tell her that, yes, actually, since she is offering, he _would_ like a moment. Harry is about 90% sure now that she won’t kill him (and that, if she tried, Draco would stop her, anyway).

Perhaps it’s a good thing Draco gathers his wits before Harry does, telling his mother some reassuring nonsense about how they are fine, absolutely splendid, perfectly normal. Honestly, Harry didn’t listen, he was rather distracted by that blush. Making Draco blush must be one of the proudest achievements of Harry’s life, and he is determined to enjoy each and every one of them.

“If I had known that you are still in the giddy stage of being newlyweds, I would have waited before inviting you. How silly of me, to think six months would be enough for you to be fit for polite society again.” Narcissa smirks at them, which makes Draco blush more and utterly confuses Harry. Did she just —

“If I had known you would humiliate me like this, we would have waited longer to accept your invitation,” Draco mutters into his cup, about to distract himself with his tea before he remembers what happened last time, and, with a wary glace at Harry, sets the cup back down.

Shame, Harry, too, would like to escape this conversation (no matter how amused Narcissa seems, Harry has a hard time believing she is actually comfortable discussing her son's sex life, even in unsubtle allusions), and tackling Draco onto the couch seems by far like the most entertaining way to achieve that.

“You wound me, darling. I’m trying to be supportive of your interests.” This time Narcissa is definitely laughing at both of them, pointedly looking at how little space there is between them. As if it wasn't abundantly clear what she was talking about.

Draco eyes his tea with new interest, possibly contemplating drowning himself to make it stop. In the abstract, Harry understands the urge. Much more prominently, he is in awe of Narcissa Malfoy all over again. Harry remembers how she saved his life, how she stood there and lied for him — how does Harry keep underestimating her? Narcissa is _teasing_ him, has been from the start, because she must have known Harry was anxious for her approval. And, so, she decided to do what other people are scared to even contemplate since his triumph over evil and being lauded as hero, and poked at Harry for her own amusement.

They should come to tea more often — they could have a lot of fun.

Draco is grumbling something about traditional virtues and how neither humiliation nor denial are part of those, pouting at his tea, and missing the wink Narcissa gives Harry. Yes, they will definitely have to come back. This is amazing. Harry thinks he has officially been approved, now.

Draco stutters a bit in his rant as Harry pulls him close to eliminate the last bit of distance between them, and then, Harry abruptly remembers that this is fake, that they are pretending for Narcissa's sake. Harry is about to get up with some vague excuse, give Draco some space, and sit back down far away — because exploiting this situation is _not_ how Harry planned to be closer again — but then Draco melts into him, picking up his rant again, resting against Harry.

Narcissa smiles softly at them, and if Harry needed any more convincing that this was a good idea, this would have been it. 


	22. Chapter 22

Draco doesn’t spare the room more than a furtive glance, stumbling out of the floo and pulling Harry along, heading for the couch (the ugly one Harry refused to get rid of; Draco grew oddly fond of it — he is pretty sure it’s Stockholm-syndrome). Tea with his mother went in a million directions and not a single one of them as Draco expected; he is quite done dealing with the world today.

Stepping past the coffee table — why do they even _have_ that thing? It's always in the way and hoards dust and garbage, aesthetically unappealing and cumbersome — Draco flops down onto the soft cushioning in a truly ungraceful move he’d be mortified by if it didn’t make Harry smile every time, just a little bit.

This time, Harry doesn’t smile.

Harry frowns down at Draco, looking hesitant instead of following him. That won’t do at all, how is Draco supposed to catch a break from making decisions and behaving like a Responsible Adult when Harry is all the way over there? The couch might be wide and comfortable, soft like it could swallow him up any moment to secret him away to a hidden paradise, but Draco doesn't want to go there without Harry.

Draco looks up at Harry, still frowning and lost in thought, and stretches his arms out for him, making a grabbing motion with his hands to convey what longstanding tradition apparently didn’t.

It’s rather insulting, that Draco should have to go to such an effort to get something they long since agreed to view as normal. Even before that hideous couch and Harry’s arms around him became a reliable constant, Draco didn’t need such extreme methods. It’s a few steps back, Draco is sure, and it’s concerning, but right now, he would do anything to convince Harry to stop frowning like that and to no longer have to think. Looking like a helpless idiot usually does the trick, activating something in Harry’s Hero-Brain and making him switch into Saviour mode.

In _theory_ , at least. In reality, Harry hasn’t moved an inch.

Draco doesn’t have the words to describe how frustrating that is, not after the sheer endless amount of baby pictures his mother unearthed, and not after the cryptic speech his father gave Harry, running into them on his way out. Draco couldn’t tell what the purpose of that speech was — based on surrounding circumstances, it seems reasonable to assume a warning, but not a single word his father said supports that thesis — holding Harry’s eyes the entire time and talking in grave seriousness about growing flowers, and needing to love and protect them, because otherwise the gardener will be very unhappy. At that point, Draco’s father snapped the huge hedge shears shut in what must have been the most threatening way he could have done, making them all jump, and then, walking out ominously, not losing eye-contact.

It was also, at this point, that Draco decided he would get his father some books on the value of rhetoric and how to improve in that regard. Not that it was a _bad_ speech, the message — hurt my son and I cut off your head — got conveyed fine, as long as you consider context clues, as well.

Seeing how Draco was convinced his father didn’t care anymore, it was surprisingly good and touching, a nice reminder that the strange man obsessed with the Manor grounds is, in fact, his father, coping with the horrors of the war (two wars, Draco tends to forget that) in ways that Draco doesn’t understand. Their validity isn’t bound to Draco’s understanding or approval, though, and, as long as they work for his father, Draco shouldn’t give up on the man.

Emotionally wrought revelations on family bonds don’t make already exhausting days easier, however, and Draco would have preferred to have that particular epiphany some other time. Instead, Draco’s had a long and trying day, which Harry knows all too well because he is one of the people that made it long and trying, and the only thing Draco wants is to forget about it all for a moment. Is that too much to ask?

Harry seems to think so. It’s unfortunate for Harry, then, that Grimmauld has a fondness for making Draco happy, and that Draco has long since learnt how to exploit that fact.

Projecting discontent and his desire for a cure isn’t difficult, given that he _is_ discontent and longing, languishing away in his terrible lonesome.

Ever efficient, Grimmauld neatly pulls the rug out of under Draco’s disobedient husband. Harry stumbles, grasping for balance at nothing, and then he falls, landing heavily on Draco. Not ideal, not ideal at all, but at least Harry is warm and here and, really, who needs to breathe, anyway?

Thankfully, Harry finally gives up whatever reservations he had, tension fading out of him as he gets comfortable. Draco doesn’t know what the next step would have been, short of knocking him out with a charm and abusing the lowered defences of sleep — which is highly unethical, Draco would have needed a lot of build-up to go there — there isn’t much more he could have done to be allowed to wrap his arms around Harry, to pull him close and lose himself in their embrace.

It takes Draco far too long to remember they are getting divorced.

He doesn’t know how he forgot — who forgets their marriage is over and that they can’t pester their partner into doing stuff for them anymore? — but that certainly explains a few things. _Harry_ didn’t forget, which is why he was frowning, and why Draco was forced to manipulate Grimmauld into quite literally _throwing_ Harry in his lap before he was willing to touch Draco.

He should probably feel worse about that, now that he’s remembered Harry is soon going to announce that he is leaving, that he can’t stay in a relationship so unfulfilling. Draco _does_ feel bad about it, but not bad enough to release Harry. Draco is selfish like that.

Besides, if Harry wanted to get up, he would say something. Harry was never one to hesitate to speak his mind, certainly not where Draco is concerned. If Harry isn’t complaining, he must be fine with smothering Draco for a bit longer, or at least close enough to it that Draco doesn’t feel obligated to do the gracious thing and offer Harry a way out. Harry will have to forge his own escape route if he wants to leave; Draco, for his part, is very comfortable.

Distantly, Draco is aware that this should be weird. They’ve spent the last days not speaking to each other after a spectacularly vicious fight; they should _not_ be this content to be squeezed onto a couch together. And, yet, Draco actively _wants_ to be here, and Harry didn’t protest (much), and things couldn’t be further from weird.

In fact, this is almost exactly what Draco wanted, where they would be if Draco hadn’t lost it and kicked up a fuss about technicalities. It seemed justified in the moment, insupportable that Harry should take that, too, but, looking back, it’s rather silly. After all, what is the difference in Harry claiming his dues when he is awake? Both are unpleasant, but at least Draco wouldn’t have had to keep that sentiment off his face with Harry dreaming.

Harry said he dreamed of Draco, anyway — a better version of him, who would give Harry all the right reactions without having to think about it, while the real, broken Draco could have focused on shutting out the sensation. Looked at like that, Draco was stupid to reject the possibility so thoroughly.

It doesn’t matter anymore, because the way Harry looked at him when Draco confessed to hating it all, confirmed by the things he wrote in that ill-thought out letter, makes Draco certain that Harry no longer has any interest in enforcing their deals. But he is still here, close enough that Draco can feel his breath on his face, arms wound tight around Draco. Perhaps they cannot only go back, perhaps they can make it better.

They would still have what Draco treasured, as evidenced by their current position, but maybe Harry would find some other way to slake his desires. Maybe he will find _someone_ else.

Draco would have expected to be delighted at the prospect of getting rid of his dreaded duty, the perfect marriage, but the thought of Harry seeing someone else, giving part of himself to someone else, someone who isn’t Draco and isn’t worthy — Draco hates it with an impetuous potency.

Draco has no right to be jealous of some hypothetical person he made necessary by his own deficiency, but he clutches Harry tighter all the same. Draco’s never liked sharing, and he has always been too proud to admit when he needs help. If he isn’t careful, this love is going to break him.

Harry twitches on top of him, startling Draco out of his bleak future visions, and then he is being pulled up and clutched to Harry’s chest, head spinning from the sudden movement.

They are standing on the couch (well, _Harry_ is standing, Draco would fall if Harry were less strong), and Harry is scanning every inch of the room, holding his wand steadily and muscles tensed, ready to leap.

They are being attacked.

Draco is oddly calm about that realisation. He remembers the Manor, when he would spring upright in bed at the creak of a floorboard outside his door, much more aware of who could be out there and how very much he doesn’t want them to come in than he was of the heavy protection spells and wards he wrought for exactly that reason. Draco feels the same fear now, the sense of danger settling over him and making his hair stand on edge, but it’s dulled, far away. Mostly, he feels Harry, the beating of his heart and the rhythm of his breathing, feels his calm and surety, his determination.

Draco feels safe, and it’s all Harry.

“Something moved,” Harry whispers, eyes making their way around the room again when his first search doesn’t find anything.

Draco briefly considers if, perhaps, he should cast some spells, make the search easier for Harry, but then he shrugs it off. Harry is more than capable of dealing with any intruder stupid enough to think they stand a chance against _Harry Potter_ , and Draco can snuggle closer and enjoy the show.

Something moves again, and Harry swivels them around, wand arching through the air and the spell almost cast, magic high and potent around them, his entire force bundled and focused on — _Darlington_! The third and last of the ferrets Harry dragged home, most adventurous of the bunch and currently about to be annihilated by a spell meant to stop a human intruder.

Draco can’t let that happen.

Using all the momentum Draco can gather under the panicked strength shooting through him, Draco throws himself against Harry’s chest, causing him to lose his balance and both of them to topple over.

Harry shouts and pulls Draco closer, Darlington squeaks and hopefully takes cover somewhere, and the spell flies high through the air, blasting a hole into the ceiling. Draco hopes Grimmauld can forgive him for the damage.

“What do you think you are doing, Draco? Do you know how dangerous that was? I could have hurt you!” Harry’s concern is flattering, really, and if Draco had more time, he would preen under it, but he has a ferret to check up on.

Harry keeps on ranting about what dreadful things could have happened, and how Draco needs to stop thinking of only himself and start recognising that his actions have an impact on Harry, too. Draco should listen to him, this is almost certainly important and convoluted enough that Draco can’t just pick it up in passing while searching for Darlington, but, in all honesty, he doesn’t want to know.

Draco doesn’t want to know what Harry has to say, because he knows he won't like it. Harry might be right in what he is saying, but Draco can’t bear hearing it, listening and analysing and deciding what to do with it. It’s not fair, and it’s not what Harry deserves, but Draco deliberately ignores him in favour of crawling under tables and chairs to find the ferret.

“— frankly, I think it’s selfish and manipulative, and I thought you were better than — what are you doing? Is that one of the ferrets?” Harry's anger is forgotten the moment Draco pulls Darlington out from behind the couch. Draco is grateful for it; selfish and manipulative, just as Harry said. Draco tries not to dwell on it.

It’s easy enough to focus on other things when Harry kneels down beside them, reaching to take Darlington out of Draco’s arms but settling for patting his head when Draco instinctively pulls him away. He might be overreacting here, but Harry almost blew the animal to smithereens mere moments ago— surely, he can’t be blamed for being cautious.

“I wondered what had happened to them, you know? I wasn’t in a fit state to care for them after you left, and then _I_ left, too, and I didn’t consider what would happen to them — they had been hiding from me for a while before that, not that I can blame them, and they slipped my mind. It seems Grimmauld took good care of them for us.” Harry doesn’t look at him, speaking his confession into Darlington’s soft fur.

Draco graciously doesn’t point out how irresponsible he was. He is all too aware that his own behaviour these past days has been… questionable, and he would prefer not to shackle them both to what they did wrong. There is nowhere to go but down if they stay here, and there are only two ways of getting far away.

The first, noble and honourable, course, is to admit to mistakes, to expose them all and apologise and become stronger in dealing with the consequences. Mistakes once forgiven can’t sink you, simple as that.

It’s also not all simple, however, and Draco is naturally inclined to take the other route and deny there is something wrong. With enough imagination, you can fool yourself into believing anything.

That is what Draco will do, pretend and shove his feelings down until they no longer hurt, until the pain is dulled and far away, and they can move on with their life.

If Draco is going to absolve himself like that, the least he can do is absolve Harry, too. Harry would never manage it on his own, too good to even consider leaving behind open wounds, but Draco isn’t as conscientious — he can see when something needs to be sacrificed. Between the two of them, it’s not hard to decide who should give up his peace of mind. Harry has sacrificed enough.

And, so, Draco doesn’t say anything on the misconduct of proper pet care. He just offers Darlington for Harry to hold and relishes in the small smile that earns him. 

* * *

They both moved back into Grimmauld. 

Harry likes to think they made their choice independently, and because they realised they can live just fine together, even after all that has happened and needs to happen still — but that would be delusional. They _do_ manage something that resembles normalcy, true, but that is more thanks to their friends unceremoniously kicking them out of where they had been hiding in their guest rooms and couches. Harry is convinced it was Parkinson's idea, Draco likes to blame Hermione, which means it probably was Ron. Not that it matters; it worked out fine, and everyone is happy with how things are.

Except that it’s not fine, and Harry is not happy.

They don’t talk about what happened, about their marriage, or their fight, or the letters. They talk about none of the important things. It almost feels like they are in the first days of marriage, back to Potter and Malfoy, hating without knowing each other. This is worse, though. Perhaps because Harry knows how things _could_ be, knows what he wants to say and ask and know. Harry knows what he’s missing — he just doesn’t know how to reach it.

It would be simple to say something, to ask Draco to sit down for an hour or two and very calmly, very rationally, talk about what exactly happened between them, how Draco feels about it. Simple, yes, but not easy. And, even in all its glorious simplicity, it could destroy the last thing remaining to them. What if Harry asking scares Draco off? Harry would be left here, without Draco, and none of the answers. Losing Draco again is not a risk Harry is willing to take.

Which doesn’t mean he can’t dream of the gamble turning out well — as if Harry could stop if he wanted — but dreaming has long since stopped being a mere option and become something of a necessity. Harry can’t help it, he hears Draco’s vague hum and imagines what Draco might have said if things were different, wonders if Draco would go tense when Harry touches him without warning, if they had discussed boundaries instead of building them without maps in the murky vast of human relationships. Perhaps Harry would sleep better if he wasn’t weighted down by new guilt, wake up without falling into panic when Draco is already gone from their bed.

Harry tries not to dwell on it. There are many, _many_ things he doesn’t talk about and lives with, why should this be any different? Draco obviously wants it this way, dragging Harry back to Grimmauld after tea with his mother and the murder threat from his father, not saying a single word on the matter of their fight or separation. Instead, he pulled Harry down onto the couch and clung to him, not letting go until they both fell asleep, ferrets curled up around them.

Harry suspects it was more of an accident than a subtle message, that Draco forgot for a few precious moments, but it was nice to hold him again, to lay on that couch that Harry might seriously owe his life and happiness to. Harry didn’t voice his suspicions.

That is how things are: Harry saying nothing of what he wants to say more with every day passing in silence, watching Draco fight his own battles, and not talking about it.

It’s good, it’s all fine. It could be better, but, really, when couldn’t it? Life sucks, everyone knows that, and there is nothing you can do to reach that elusive perfection that seems to come as easily as a well-trained dog to others. Who knows, maybe they sold their soul and are stuck in the cold realisation of how hollow perfection is, an eternity in hell looming over them. No, Harry is just fine in his life, he has been much less happy before.

It’s probably concerning that Harry — whose life is a collection of miserable tales and pain swallowed down and put up with — can think of nothing more flattering to say about his marriage than that living with the Dursleys was worse, that having Voldemort obsess over him and ruin every single year of his education was worse. That makes it sound much worse than it is. Harry needs to focus on the good things, needs to see the full picture before he judges it.

They are cooking together, which is a good thing. It’s also an absurd thing because, for one, Harry never thought the idea would actually _work._ Hermione read it in one of her books on couples counselling and social bonding (she refused to clarify if she bought them for Harry’s case specifically or had them lying around already). Anyway, they were filled to the brim with thoughts of how people connect and how they can strengthen connections — one big clue that Hermione must have had them already, as she’s always disliked how little she understands most people, annoyed enough by it to read up on how to improve, but never quite enough to carry her over into the second stage of implementing what she had read — and Hermione would throw these ideas and advice at Harry, unasked for and under-appreciated as it was. Then, she successfully nagged him into suggesting at least one of the _fun bonding experiences for two or more people_ , and after neither he nor Draco died of food poisoning, it somehow became a Thing.

Harry is glad to see it’s still a Thing. They are no good at it, of course, absolutely horrible, but Harry likes to think they are slowly getting better. They are developing a system, of sorts. Harry has all the practical skills cooking requires — that’s just what happens when the people you grow up with decide you are a good size to cook and play maid while going largely unnoticed — but he has no patience for the recipes. He does, however, like listening to Draco. Draco will read out the recipes, too fast for Harry to follow and interrupted with comments and unfavourable opinions that make Harry laugh, and then Draco will direct _his_ take on the recipe. Harry’s never understood how Draco can be glued to the letter when it comes to potions and skip whole sides when it comes to cooking, but it might have something to do with the fact that, in cooking, it’s _Harry_ who runs in danger of setting his eyebrows aflame.

So, yes, they are cooking, and Harry only lost one eyebrow the last time Draco ordered a small inferno, which makes it a good habit. A tradition, or, in the very least, growing to be one.

Harry still knows how to make Draco laugh, even if he has to work harder for it these days.

They tell each other of their days, more often spent apart now than they used to, but that means there is more to talk about in the evenings. They don’t share details, perhaps, edit the more intimate and private things where before they wouldn’t have hesitated to voice them.

They can still share silence, barely a bit more strained than they would have been before. They sit on the couch together, and Draco is lost in his plans (which they also argue about, just as they always have) or with his nose stuck in a book, comfortable enough with Harry’s presence to relax next to him, and even lean into him, at times.

They are on the right track, trying hard to find their way back into normalcy. It’s to be expected that things aren’t the same yet, that they are at times hesitant and unsure and awkward, that they fumble and abort movements because they’ve remembered too late that it might not be appropriate, anymore.

Sometimes, it’s bad enough that Harry wonders why he is still here, still trying. Days when Draco barely talks to him because he doesn’t want Harry to know what he has been thinking about, when Draco shies away from his touch, or when Harry is angry at everything without a chance to be freed of it because they silently agreed to bury the past. Some days, Harry wants to pack both their bags and leave, go far away into that nebulous place where problems don’t matter anymore, where they could exist without being tied down by the things they regret.

When it’s really bad, Harry thinks about going there alone. That fantasy never lasts long because, even when Draco is a grumpy bugger, Harry is aware he would miss him, that his life would be dull without Draco in it, and even the most perfect paradise would be empty.

Ultimately, Draco always reminds him of that, one way or another. 

Yesterday, for example, Harry finally realised why his shampoo smelled different, and why it was familiar even in that change. It’s the same as Draco’s, slightly different to allow for their difference in hair structure, but the same fancy brand Harry always rolled his eyes at. He can’t deny anymore that it’s worth its exorbitant price, _couldn’t_ when it was Draco’s hair that was temptingly smooth and shiny, but can even _less_ so now that it is his own hair — not tamed, by any means, but much more manageable, softer.

Draco changed all of his products, not only the shampoo. It took Harry shamefully long to notice, but now that he has, he can’t stop thinking about what it means. Draco cares, he might show it in different ways than Harry does, but he cares, and he tries just as hard. How could Harry run away from him?

“Are you looking at _porn_?” Harry asks, nearly stumbling as he walks into the living room to find Draco lounging on the couch, engrossed in a magazine with a not-at-all-subtle black cover.

Draco startles so badly that he lets the paper fall, shooting upright and eyes frantically searching until settling on Harry, identifying him as the intruder. Harry might have been exaggerating on how well they live together.

He _also_ might have underestimated how urgent that talk is. He thought Draco’s interest in sex was non-existent (which seems correct enough, going by the recent lack of it in Harry’s life), but wouldn’t that include looking at porn? Perhaps that is different, perhaps Draco is alright with that. But then, if he is _that_ alright with it to be doing it in the middle of day (although, Harry was supposed to be at the Weasleys’ for at least another hour, Draco probably thought he would have more time), then Harry surely would have noticed sooner!

“Excuse me?” Draco has collected himself enough to pick the magazine off from the ground, smoothing out the wrinkles he must have caused by gripping too hard before letting go of it, glaring at Harry as thought it was _his_ fault the pristine perfection of his porn has been ruined.

Draco’s porn; Harry can’t wrap his head around that.

“I was asking since when you enjoyed porn.” That wasn’t what Harry asked, and it’s not what he really wants to know, either, but he feels asking anything more… informative might violate the agreement to Not Talk About It.

“I’m… what?” Draco, the poor bloke, looks like he might let the magazine fall yet again, embarrassment rendering him a splotchy red and taking his ability to speak.

It’s amazing how much better Harry feels knowing that Draco is as unsure of the situation as he himself is. Really, it’s quite funny if you think about it (or that might be the nerves and tension finally tearing, but Harry will take what he can get), and Harry can’t stop the chuckle building up in him. This is all so absurd.

“It’s alright, no need to look so scandalised! Actually, it’s a relief.” Harry walked in on his husband — who he had _a lot_ of sex with — looking at porn; it’s not exactly shocking, if you forget about the rest. 

Harry is resolved to do that, to forget about definitions he doesn’t understand and that no one is explaining to him. He can figure this out on his own, learning by doing, all that motivational stuff. This is _Draco_ — Harry forgot that under all the revelations and words.

“A relief?” Draco sounds odd, hollow, pressing the glossy pages of the magazine against his chest. He looks small on the giant couch, and Harry thinks he’s just said something very stupid.

“Well, yes, a bit. I know you… learnt some things about yourself and that you are still struggling with it all — I honestly don’t understand half of it. And that is okay! I don’t have to understand it all to respect your boundaries, you don’t need to justify anything! But I still didn’t understand it, and then I find you looking at porn, and I thought that changed everything I had just figured out, but it doesn’t, does it? It’s perfectly normal, everyone does it, why would I freak out over that? I _get_ it, Draco; for the first time here, I feel like I understand what you are doing, and, yeah, I’m pretty relieved about that.” Harry isn’t going to lose Draco, not to this. Harry will figure it all out, and then they will finally be completely happy.

Draco doesn’t look convinced, biting his lips and thumbing at the pages, thinking about what he said. Harry waits patiently, not wanting to push him too far and contemplating changing the topic, when suddenly Draco glares up at him.

“I think there has been a misunderstanding,” Draco says icily, throwing the magazine at Harry and storming out, careful to avoid brushing against Harry.

Yes, Harry screwed up big time.

Should he go after Draco and apologise? Perhaps not. Draco is angry — hurt, too, probably — and he knows too well how to rile Harry up. If Harry follows him now, violates the space he is seeking for an apology he doesn’t even know the subject of, they are going to fight. There would be shouting and accusations, and Harry would say all the things he kept back, throw them out in the worst way possible, aimed to hurt.

Instead of going after Draco into certain doom, Harry goes to pick up the magazine he dropped. The cover is a discreet black, glossy and shimmering in the light, screaming of lewd pictures and impropriety. Not porn, Draco said, as if Harry would believe — the first thing Harry sees when he opens the pages is Lockhart, his smile as obnoxious as ever, winking up at Harry. He nearly lets go of the paper in shock.

‘GILDEROY LOCKHART KIDNAPPED BY THESTRALS!’ the headline reads, plastered over the whole page. The article (Harry is generous calling it an article, mostly because he doesn’t know a better word) details on how Lockhart — apparently recovered from his dangerous position as Hogwarts Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, which Harry didn’t know about — has gone missing, leaving behind only a lock of his hair and a hastily written note to communicate his abduction. The whole thing seems very dodgy to Harry, but the smile is promising to give him nightmares if he looks at it for much longer, so he quickly moves on.

‘CAN PUMPKIN JUICE WARD OFF VAMPIRES?’ No. No, it cannot, and Harry refuses to believe the stupidity of these people.

‘WOMAN CLAIMS GHOST OF MAD-EYE TO BE TRAPPED IN HER FRIDGE!’ Harry rolls his eyes again, opens the next — _Mad-Eye Moody?_

Harry flips back, skimming the, once again, paltry writing. _He won't stop telling me the milk's gone bad!_ — Harry actually chuckles at that. Seems about right for Mad-Eye; constant vigilance, Moody.

‘WHAT THE MINISTRY DOESN’T WANT YOU TO KNOW!’ — alright, no, conspiracy theories are officially too much for Harry. The point is made anyway — this is clearly not porn, but a whole other kind of depravity: gossip.

Harry doesn’t know why Draco sought to hide his fondness for cheap gossip magazines (actually, no, Harry wouldn’t want anyone to know, either, if he was the one reading garbage for entertainment), but leafing through it all will not only make Harry lose faith in humanity, but also not help their situation at all. It’s much worse than Harry thought already. 

Harry sighs and drops the magazine on the table. Then, he sighs again and drops himself on the floor, stretching out on the soft carpet. He wishes he knew what to do. 


	23. Chapter 23

Living with Harry is difficult. In many ways, it’s more difficult than living without him, and if it weren't more bearable (a particular cruel twist of the universe because, apparently, Draco hasn’t suffered enough yet for his scared, foolish youth), Draco would have packed his bags and left. He doesn’t even want Grimmauld anymore, not now that it’s so irrevocably _theirs._ Draco forgot, lying awake in Pansy’s guest room and thinking of how to best escape this mess; he forgot how important Harry became in this house, in his life.

Now that Draco is back again, he can see Harry’s brand everywhere. Yes, if his life wasn’t absolutely unimaginable without Harry, Draco would have left. But he is still here, and it still hurts.

Draco had a long time to get used to the companionship of pain, and this pain, in particular, and he grew adept at finding their roots. It doesn’t make the pain hurt less, to know _why_ he hurts, but it does give Draco something to do, a way to sort through and categorise the pain. Draco feels more comfortable once he’s done that, once he knows what he is dealing with.

Draco knows that he is hurting for Harry and the things he must be giving up by being with Draco, hurting for a future when he won’t settle for crumbs — not anymore.

Analysing pain and fear might not make them go away, but it does facilitate the drafting and adjusting of battle strategies. Draco has long since lost count how many battles he’s planned, how many ways he’s theorised out of the hurt, broken down into logical little pieces that should be easy to discard. He never dared implement them, never risked seeing them fail.

Draco isn’t a fighter, and he resolved himself to finding strength in _not_ doing things, especially not against himself. Draco is not a fighter, it’s true, but, for Harry, he just might be.

Draco didn’t want to sit in tense silence, well aware that things could be better, until Harry had enough and got up. Draco didn’t want to wait until he lost even more. 

The strategy was obvious because the problem itself was obvious, unchanged over the months of their marriage. Sex, Draco had concluded, grasping at his scientific detachment and praying to all things powerful that he could at least _think_ it without vomiting.

He couldn’t. For all his recent exposure and his research, Draco couldn’t stand the thought. But he trained, and he got better. Sex, Draco knows, will either save or condemn his marriage.

The plan, therefore, is simple: give Harry what he wants without making him worry. If Harry feels in any way that Draco is uncomfortable (which he would be, a major problem in the plan), Harry would force a stop, on Draco’s behalf, and deny himself. Draco would be relieved and grateful until, one day, Harry would tell him, very gently, that he met someone. He would say more, how they are beautiful and kind and intelligent and _whole_ , but Draco would already know where that conversation was headed.

Draco won’t let it come to that.

So, he kissed Harry.

Draco talked himself up, rationalised until he couldn’t think anymore, and, he kissed Harry.

“What do you think you are doing?” Harry sounds the closest to panic that Draco has ever heard him, holding Draco at arm’s length and staring at him, eyes wild. That is not what Draco wanted to happen — did he do it wrong?

The kiss was… there is no good way to say this — it was bad. It was wet and gross and revolting and invasive — it was what Draco expected, what he remembered, but so much worse. Draco thought that was only _him_ , that he found no pleasure in smashing their mouths and tongues together because he doesn’t understand these things. Draco wanted the kiss to be _good_ ; for Harry, at least. Instead, he made everything worse.

Harry’s face is set, grim and stern, pinning Draco down as real as his hands digging into his arms. Draco can only guess at what he is thinking (did Draco accelerate the realisation that he is an undesirable partner, and Harry is, right now, deciding to leave?), but it’s not good news, that much is undeniable. Harry is upset, and it’s Draco’s fault.

Draco feels like crying. He feels ripped open and seedy and like a failure, alone and rejected and broken. What a stupid thought, that he should convince Harry to stay by _kissing_ him.

“You didn’t like it?” Even his voice sounds small, and Draco resents it all.

He hates how weak he feels, how desperate to please. It’s _pathetic_ , the kind of person Draco would wrinkle his nose at, a snivelling fool grabbing at stars not meant for him and cutting himself at their edges.

He hates Harry, kind and patient and _good_ , marrying Draco and laughing at his jokes, indulging his dramatics and cooking for him; making Draco fall in love. Harry, who is looking at him like he is a misbehaving pet, a Kneazle that’s brought in a dead bird, torn up and bloody, and Harry is wondering why he even kept Draco as long as he did, bewildered and disgusted.

Most of all, Draco hates himself. He hates this affliction, hates how well it fits him and how perfectly it explains his entire life, how tightly it seals away the future Draco’s worked for. He hates how he doesn’t know what to do and that he has to drag Harry down with him, that he can’t go down quietly but has to flail around, crazed and desperate, hurting Harry even in the last act.

And, then, he hates himself some more, because does he seriously want to die quietly? Go down without anyone noticing because he made sure everyone else is having a fantastic time? What happened to his pride? What happened to dignity and self-respect and fighting for what he wants? What happened to fighting for Harry?

“Of course, I liked it, but that isn’t the point!” Harry lets Draco go to pace through the room, tearing at his hair in frustration.

It probably says a lot about Draco that this picture of Harry, deranged and dangerous, magic crackling and building and winding, is what reminds Draco of what he stands to lose. Harry isn’t perfect, so painfully far from it that the public would faint if they knew. He is erratic with a foul temper and a sharp tongue, prone to spells of acrimony and ire. Harry is human, impetuous and stubborn, and Draco loves him, with all his heart.

He can’t abandon Harry because he feels sorry for himself, because it would be _easier_. They both know what is wrong in this relationship, and Draco is determined to end that, here and today. He is committed, for better or worse, no matter the price.

And, if Harry liked the kiss, all is not lost yet.

Draco stands up, as well, crossing the room to catch Harry in his trench. Harry stops one inch of running Draco into the ground, too lost in his head to pay attention to his surroundings. That won’t do; Harry shouldn’t have to agonise over this.

Careful to project his movement and intentions, Draco gently disentangles his fingers from his hair. Harry doesn’t protest, blinks at Draco and lets him guide his hands down, smiles when Draco gives them a slight squeeze. Draco would do far more than bear a little discomfort to be allowed to make him smile like that.

“No, I rather think that is exactly the point.” Draco smirks, tries his best to make it look welcoming, seductive — just like he practised.

Harry’s eyes are fixed on his lips, pupils blown wide, and Draco feels satisfaction curl warm around him. He can do this; he can give Harry what he deserves, and he won’t make him feel bad about it.

“Draco,” Harry whispers, leaning closer and not looking away from his mouth. This is going all according to plan, dangerously smooth, and Draco presses down on his discomfort. He can’t afford to slip now. “I’m going to need you to stop saying things like that.”

This is exactly where Draco wanted him, he would have to be stupid to stop now. Draco knows what he has to say next, Blaise raved enough about the romance books he likes to read that at least in theory Draco is equipped to handle every possible situation.

“Make me.”

Harry makes a weird whimpering sound, more distressing than appealing, but with a high probability of getting the response he aimed for. Good, very good.

Harry leans forward, closer and ever closer, and Draco reminds himself that this is a _good_ thing, that this is what he wanted Harry to have: his pleasure without the guilt.

It’s harder to remember the closer Harry gets, and when he shuts his eyes, Draco is hit with the ridiculous thought that it could be _anyone_ , that his green eyes make Harry who he is, and now that Draco can’t see them anymore, there is only his mouth, slightly open and demanding, getting closer and closer, and why is Draco still watching? How did he think he could do this? He obviously can’t, and if he doesn’t pull it together soon —talking milliseconds soon here — Harry will know and blink back into awareness and realise that Draco disappointed him _again_ , and then he will definitely leave, and Draco will have lost because he can’t just —

“Don’t be stupid, Draco,” Harry says, nudging their noses together instead of prying open his mouth. Then he is leaning back, not far enough to leave, but enough that Draco feels like he can breathe again. “Unless you can convincingly tell me that you changed your mind about not wanting to kiss — that would be a hard sell, though, with your face looking like that — I’m not going to do anything in that direction. It would be infinitely easier if you would stop goading me.”

Draco pouts at him. Why does Harry insist on making this difficult? Draco is trying so hard, to be considerate and selfless and give his stubborn husband what he wants — why can’t Harry just be grateful and take it? Draco can only do so much on his own, he needs Harry do the rest.

“Why not? You certainly had no problems with it before.” Draco doesn’t mean it as an accusation, but Harry flinches and clearly takes it as such.

“You really want to go back to how things were? To me blindly taking whatever I want, and you gritting your teeth through it? To lies and no trust and this pushy house the only reason we are even still married?” Harry doesn’t wait for an answer, growling and ripping away from Draco.

Draco doesn’t want to be hurt by Harry’s retreat. 

He doesn’t want things to return to what they were, doesn’t want them to be what they are right now, and doesn’t know what to do about any of it. One thing he knows, however, is that he _is_ hurt, despite all his struggling not to be.

“Did you mean that?” Draco asks, because he has to know. His voice is terribly small, and he doesn’t _want_ to know, but if Draco doesn’t get an answer, it will plague him for the rest of his days, shroud doubts over what he thought he knew and leave him with nothing but uncertainty. 

Anything is better than uncertainty.

“What?” Harry spares him a distracted glance before going back to glaring at the floor.

“That you only stayed because Grimmauld wouldn’t let you go — did you mean it?” Draco doesn’t think so, never had any reason to suspect that Harry might be fabricating his affections, but why else would he say it? Harry isn’t the kind to lie, not if it only serves to hurt. Why would he, filled with painful truths as he is?

Harry stops, drops his anger like a coat he doesn’t want anymore (a neat trick, Draco is both impressed and jealous), and walks back towards Draco, stepping closer than Draco expected he would after his brusque flight before. But Harry doesn’t hesitate, cradling Draco’s face in his hands and tilting his head up, forcing Draco to look at him. It’s no hardship — Draco could stare into those eyes several hours every day and still never get used to the sight.

Harry’s hands are warm and soft against his skin (the products Draco snuck in, he smugly notes; Harry better be grateful for the miracle he worked here), his thumbs stroking over Draco’s cheekbones like he is something fragile, something precious.

Draco’s changed his mind; he doesn’t need an answer. He wants to stay right here, in this moment, where Harry could say anything.

“No, Draco, I didn’t stay because Grimmauld would have made sure every house I could ever live in would haunt me if I left. I stayed because I — because of you, because I liked how things were.” Harry smiles at him, warm and reassuring, and Draco soaks it up, greedy for anything Harry will give him.

And, then, because Draco is _greedy_ and he doesn’t know how to handle his emotions, he doesn’t do the normal thing and smile back, doesn’t mumble something vague about returning the sentiment. Everything could have been fine, if Draco would have shut up and stayed in the moment he so desperately wanted to live in before. Instead, he decides to go for the whinging brat who is denied his third helping of ice cream.

“Well, I liked them, too. Why can’t we go back to that?” Draco pouts up at Harry (yes, he is well aware he is pouting, thank you), and Harry lets his hands fall from his face.

Draco misses their warmth immediately, might even consider apologising to get it back, but Harry sighs and drops his head onto Draco’s, heaving a deep sigh. Draco still feels like he should apologise, but this also seems like progress, wearing Harry’s proud morals and self-denial down.

“Because you are asexual and hate having sex. I'm not going to force you just because _I_ want it.” Harry presses against Draco, bringing his hands up again to grasp at his shoulders, as if he can’t decide what to do with them but can’t stand to keep them off Draco for long.

Draco wants him as close as possible. Not only does it bode well for his… seduction? Rescue mission? Whatever you want to call it, it will be a lot easier if Harry is amenable to finally _listening_ to Draco.

“You wouldn’t force me! You didn’t before, and you wouldn’t now.” Draco pulls Harry closer, because it seems like the thing to do and because he genuinely wants to have a hold on Harry, in case he decides to flee again.

“I felt like I was raping you! I can’t do that anymore, Draco.” Harry is indeed a flight risk, and Draco congratulates himself on the foresight to hold him tighter this time.

“Fine, then, I consent, you can do whatever you want — always could. Does that make it better?” Surely it must? Draco doesn’t have the patience to deal with Harry’s guilt, not on this. Harry feels guilty about everything, all the time, and Draco understands it concerning the war (they _all_ feel guilty about the war, and Harry does not only have that pesky prophecy blaming him, but all those Important People making him personally responsible for everything they couldn’t grab a medal for), but he refuses to add more to that pile.

“No! No, that doesn’t make it better.” Harry stands up straight, staring at Draco with wide eyes and backing away as far as possible before Draco stops him, reels him back in because there is nowhere to go but down if Harry leaves now.

“Why not? What do you want me to say?” Draco is quickly running out of options here; he thought expressing his explicit consent would solve whatever moral crisis Harry’s having. It _should have_ — Harry already admitted the problem is that he felt like he was taking advantage of Draco.

“There is nothing you can say, Draco. It’s who you are, and that’s fine. We just have to figure out what that means for our marriage.” The answer is suspiciously perfect, calm and confident and looking to make Draco feel as comfortable as possible. 

It’s infuriating.

“How can you be so calm about this? This isn’t what you signed up for, but you are okay with half a relationship?” Perhaps Harry simply hasn’t admitted to himself yet what insisting on his stupid noble honour means. Perhaps Draco has to make it extra clear what his options are.

“Okay, first of all, it wouldn’t be half a relationship, alright? It’s full and complete, and, yes, exactly what I want. I don’t care about the sex, Draco, I want you to be happy.” How dare he make it about Draco? Draco is trying to save their marriage here, to think beyond himself and be selfless.

“ _I_ care! You might think you are okay with all of this, but you aren’t broken like me, Harry, and eventually —” Draco doesn’t get further, Harry silencing him with his palm pressed over his mouth.

“Hey, stop there for a moment. Do you seriously think you are _broken_?” Harry sounds so pained by the idea, far more affected than Draco expected him to be, his hand falling down, useless. It reminds him of Pansy, insisting that Draco should be proud of who he is, should celebrate it. Draco has heard enough of it.

“Of course, Saint Potter can’t let people think so badly of themselves. Go on, then, explain to me how I’m not broken.” Now it’s Harry who is holding on to Draco, keeping him from avoiding this conversation any longer.

“You are not. No more than for not liking spinach, at least —” Draco interrupts him; he resents being compared to _vegetables_.

“That is hardly the same!” Draco could go on, about the huge impact and its effect, but Harry glares at him, and Draco doesn’t.

“It’s exactly the same. I love spinach but you can’t stand it, so I only eat it at the Weasleys’. We can find ways to make sure we are both comfortable, we just need to start looking and learn to communicate better.” That is… oversimplified and dramatised and so far away from the issue at hand that Draco should not be as touched as he is.

“I didn’t know you renounced spinach for me.” It must be the most insipid thing to focus on in all of what Harry said, but it’s the only thing Draco can think to say.

“Not really the point I was trying to make here.” Harry smiles at him, his entire face softened by the quirk of his lips, and Draco can’t remember the last time Harry smiled like that, honest and free and unburdened by what Draco refused to discuss. 

“Isn’t it? You are giving up so much for me, Harry, and for what? You should be with someone better, someone you can touch and kiss and eat spinach with, someone that fits you.” Draco doesn’t know what he is arguing for anymore. He meant to convince Harry to stay with him, to disregard what he heard and read and be unbridled by his worry. Why is he actively encouraging Harry to leave, pointing out the mere beginning of the myriad of reasons?

“I _am_ with someone who fits me. No relationship is perfect — it’s called making compromises, inevitable and necessary in every single human relationship and group dynamic. And I don’t care about the spinach —” Harry’s earnest and undivided attention is something Draco has chased for as long as he’s known him, back when he was a scrawny kid with eyes as green as the killing curse, holding the same flame of danger. These days Draco sees more in Harry’s eyes, better things as well as worse, but they’ve lost none of their allure, of their weight.

“You said you loved it,” Draco blurts out, anything to break Harry’s focus for a moment, just a bit of breathing space.

“I was exaggerating; it’s nowhere near as important as you, and I can’t believe that I have to spell this out for you. It’s not as important as the fact that you learnt how to make coffee for me, or that you sit up the whole night and play Scrabble with me when I can’t sleep because of nightmares. It’s not as important as all the food you do like even though you have no idea how to cook it, and I'm convinced we’ll die of food poisoning one of these days. It’s not as important as what you _give_ , the small things and the big things and those you don’t even think about. It doesn’t matter, none of it, because I want to be with you.” There is nowhere to hide from the sincerity, no way to escape the profound emotions Harry is revealing.

Draco can’t handle this. He could barely deal with Harry’s admission of not hating him, but this is basically a proclamation of love! How is Draco supposed to not lose his mind over this? Draco doesn’t get what he dreams of, not since he grew beyond the age of wishing for what could be bought with money. He resigned himself to a marriage with huge sacrifices to save his mother, adjusted to the idea of enjoying the marriage for its own worth, and then tried to comprehend its near certain loss — Draco cannot cope with his dreams being dangled in front of him like this, taunting and calling to him.

Harry offers him all he yearns for, presented on a silver plate and waiting for Draco’s approval. Draco wants it so much it hurts, wants to reach out and take it all, without looking back.

Draco _wants_ , but he knows he can’t. What Harry is offering is perfect, but it’s so far from an equal partnership that Draco shudders to think of how Harry must feel about it.

“I want to be with you, too. That’s why I want to give you what you deserve, all of it, everything I physically can.” Draco doesn’t realise he is crying before Harry is there to wipe the tears away.

In a matter of seconds, Draco is full-on sobbing, clinging to Harry like he might drown otherwise, listening to his soothing nonsense, and pressing up into the soft kiss Harry drops onto his forehead.

Why does loving Harry have to hurt so much?

They stand like that for a long time, Draco’s head buried in Harry’s neck, his hands clinging to Harry’s back, Harry’s fingers threading through his hair. They stand there until Draco can breathe again, until he doesn’t feel like he is about to be crushed by the weight of their relationship anymore.

Draco feels a lot better, only slightly embarrassed, and more determined than before to never let his man go again.

“What do we do about this mess, then?” Draco asks, grateful his voice doesn’t waver.

“We determine rules.” Harry smirks at him, throws in a wink, too, because he is ridiculous. Draco gasps, exaggerated and overdrawn, because he, too, is ridiculous.

“ _Harry Potter_ proposing we establish _rules_? I cannot believe this, what has the world come to?” Draco acts like he is about to swoon, secure in Harry’s hold as he is, catching a glance of Harry’s pleased smile before he is pulled upright again.

“Oh — hush, you.” Harry drops a kiss on his nose, which does nothing to vanish the wave of giddy relief that’s crashed over the both of them. Then, his face grows more serious, and Draco holds his breath in an attempt to shut the bubbling joy off in his brain and listen. “You have to promise me to tell me when you are uncomfortable, if there is anything you don’t want to do or that you want to try, or whatever — I need you to tell me. Can you do that?”

Draco’s first instinct is to say that, yes, of course, anything Harry asks. His second is that, no, absolutely not, his thoughts need to remain his own. There is no middle ground between them, not in the third, fourth or fifth reaction.

On one hand, Draco grew up learning to protect his thoughts and privacy at all costs. If you share your thoughts with the wrong person, it could be the ruin of your entire family, after all, so it’s safest to not share them with anyone. The information about what makes him uncomfortable, especially, is one that should remain a well-guarded secret.

On the other hand, Harry never gave him any reason to suspect he wouldn’t take good care of his secrets. In fact, as Draco’s partner, he is not asking for anything unreasonable in being kept in the loop. Draco is allowed to trust him, to share the innermost workings of his mind with him. Technically, it should only be Harry who knows these, but Draco is certain his friends figured him out years ago, which only supports the idea of inducting Harry into the small circle.

Still, even with all the best intentions, Draco knows it will be difficult.

“I don’t know, that’s a lot you are asking. All I can promise is that I’ll try.” Draco chances a glance up at Harry, afraid to see his face shut down because it’s not good enough, because he needs better than Draco’s reassurances that he’ll try his hardest.

“Good, that’s good.” Harry nods, his hands absentmindedly trailing up and down on Draco’s arms, lost in thought. Good, Draco reminds himself, this is good. Harry feels this is good. “I think that’s all for right now. The rest we figure out as we go. Sound alright?”

It sounds brilliant, ideal for Draco — right up until Harry realises how unfair this deal is to him and demands an equilibrium, until he goes to seek what Draco can’t give him. Draco almost doesn’t dare mention it, lest the thought hadn’t crossed Harry’s mind yet and Draco is the one opening the door to his misery for Harry.

“Not quite.” Draco stops, acutely aware this is the last chance to bow out and pretend there’s nothing else worth mentioning, but Harry nudges him, and the words spill out of Draco. Well, the beginnings of them, the rest is lost to shame and uncertainty. “What about…” Draco trails off, gesturing vaguely. This is going _great_ — how is he still not able to say it?

Harry frowns at him, follows the movement of Draco’s hand, and frowns some more. Draco quickly pulls his hand back. Then Harry’s eyes light up in understanding, and he laughs, not at Draco, he doesn’t think, and Draco feels a bit less stupid.

“You mean what about sex?” Draco nods, feeling the blood crawl up into his face and making him blush. Harry shrugs, as if it’s that simple. “We won’t have it. Nothing you are uncomfortable with, I mean it.”

“Yes, but for how long? How long are you going to be content denying yourself?” Harry is about to brush him off again, Draco can see it, but he talks over the determined set of his jaw. Draco needs to say this — Harry can share his thoughts after he’s heard Draco out. “No, Harry, listen to me. This is something you want, something I can never give you, something more serious than _spinach_. I don’t want you to deny yourself for your whole life any more than you want me to do the opposite.”

“We’ll see about that when we get there — _if_ we get there. There is no sense arguing hypotheticals for something that might not even happen. I could talk to Charlie, perhaps, he is ace, and he and his partner have an open relationship —” Draco isn’t entirely certain what Harry is talking about, what he is implying, but he does know that he doesn’t want to hear it.

“No! Don’t end that sentence, or you’re sleeping on the couch today. That is not only far more of any Weasley’s private life than I wanted to know, but also not even an option should I suddenly die. You married me, you are mine until I say otherwise, understood?” Draco doesn’t appreciate Harry’s low chuckle, but it’s a pleasant enough sound and not an outright refusal, so, it’s good enough for now.

“Right, of course, love.” Draco internally melts at the endearment, collapsing into Harry’s arms with a mortifying sound Harry better pretend not to have heard.

Draco doesn’t feel much surer that Harry won’t wake up in a year and decide that there is something missing, but he doesn’t feel like arguing about it anymore, not when he could easily fall asleep right where he is. Harry might not stay forever, but he is here now, his heartbeat steady and strong, his hands gentle along the knobs of Draco’s spine — what good does worrying about the future do?

“Marry me.” Harry’s voice startles Draco out of the pleasant lull he allowed himself to fall into, clinging drowsily to his limbs even as Draco slowly blinks awake.

“I’m rather certain I already did. I’ll be very offended if you say you don’t remember.” Draco almost yawns against Harry’s neck, which would undermine the promised fury significantly, and Draco is grateful he manages to stifle it before Harry notices.

“No, I mean — marry me, again. For real this time, with vows and friends and family, fancy clothes and a big party, even an announcement in the papers, if you want.” Draco is fully awake now, shocked surprise doing its part in accelerating the process. He isn’t quite awake enough yet to answer Harry, however, limited to blinking like an idiot and trying to understand what is going through Harry’s mind.

Then Harry sinks down on one knee, and all the answers and comments Draco might have had go flying out of his mind.

“I was hoping for this to be more romantic, with music and candles and random bystanders to swoon at my devotion. I’m sure you would have loved that.” Draco nods, still flabbergasted, because yes, he _would_ have loved that. Not that private proposals can’t be romantic, of course, a slight change in timing doesn’t mean Draco isn’t going to get the grand proposal of his dreams — “Well, can’t be helped … marry me?”

“You are insufferable.” Draco answers, because Harry _is_ , and it’s the loudest thought in his mind, laced with fondness and affection. Harry grins up at him, interpreting correctly but still waiting for more, waiting for Draco to say it. “Fine, yes, I will marry you, again. But I want you to propose again. I’ll organise a few tasteful photographers, and I want a ring —”

Draco has a _list_ , knows what he needs to look into later and what requirements he needs to check, but Harry stands and lifts him off his feet, twirls him through the air and laughs and Draco forgets all about the list as he shrieks, clinging to Harry and trying hard not to let show how much he is enjoying this.

Harry swings him around once more before setting him back down again, grinning like a crazy Cheshire cat. Draco is sure he must look much the same, his face hurting from how wide he smiles, his heart full and ever-growing from the emotional maze they waded through to get here. 

“We’ll figure it out, Draco, we’ll figure all of it out, and neither of us is going to leave, yeah?” Harry is leaning close again, nudging his nose against Draco’s hair and whispering into his ear. Draco never wants him to move again.

“You couldn’t get rid of me if you wanted, this was your one and only chance,” Draco whispers back, wrapping his arms around Harry, wrapping them tighter and squeezing. 

“Good.” Harry smashes a kiss against the side of Draco’s face, another one higher, the next one further to the left — Draco could happily stand here for an eternity, letting Harry pepper him with kisses and neither of them moving. 


	24. Chapter 24

Harry can’t sleep. He’s never slept well in Grimmauld — not without Draco pressed up against him — but, today, it’s especially aggravating. He doesn’t want to get married looking half-dead from exhaustion! Not only would Draco never forgive him when he looks like a zombie at what is supposed to be the happiest day of their life, but he also invited photographers of every big newspaper for a shooting after the ceremony. And, of course, there is Molly, who will take pictures of everything to commit them to the family picture book, and no one would ever let him forget how terrible he looked when professing his love for his husband to all the world.

Harry _needs_ to sleep.

One would think sleep comes easy to him, after living on barely a few hours of it for the last two weeks because Draco insisted on filling him up with coffee and going over _everything_ again. They looked at the guestlist and seating arrangements, the flowers, the cakes, the robes, talked about the music and security, and checked the forecast again. Harry should be able to sleep for a week after that particular torture. Instead, he lays awake, yearning for the tyrant he is going to marry.

If Harry had known weddings had such an extreme effect on Draco, he would have considered more carefully before proposing. It wouldn’t have changed anything, Harry still would have asked him, but he might have enlisted a few more minions for Draco to boss around. Planning a wedding is a lot more work when you marry the person you love than when you sign a few papers to sway a sentient house.

There are speeches to plan (and Merlin forbid, Harry’s burned at least three drafts of Ron’s best man speech), guest lists to debate (Harry managed to talk Draco down a few hundred, but he wanted the reception, at least, to be grand — something the gossip magazines he still denies he reads will talk about for months to come), and flowers to arrange (Lucius first criticised their every idea and then finally took the whole thing over, and Harry is slightly worried what is awaiting them tomorrow, but he knew better than to refuse) — the work never seemed to stop.

And now it _did_ stop, they planned everything, and Draco approved everything again and again. Harry had his life threatened by various Slytherins, dodged several letters of distressed fans and congratulations alike and came close to grabbing Draco and a few suitcases and just eloping no less than seven times. But Draco refused, and he always had a new task that needed to be done, and, now, here they are: the big day tomorrow, and Harry — unable to sleep.

It’s frustrating, stubbornly keeping Harry from the happiest day of his life and incurable, despite everything Harry’s tried. Seriously, Harry’s tried _everything_ , but not even the Dreamless Sleep (enough of it to knock out a fully-grown troll) helped. He’s never getting to tomorrow at this rate.

“Harry, are you awake?” Draco! Harry almost jumps out of bed in relief.

Then, he remembers that he isn’t supposed to see Draco in the night before their wedding, which is not only superstitious nonsense but also _ridiculous_ , because they are already married, so whatever vengeful god could possibly curse them for their happiness is far too late. Harry thought it stupid the moment Hermione idly mentioned it, one of many old rituals and traditions she read up on and thought might interest them, but Draco liked the idea, and Harry likes Draco, and the matter was decided. Of course, that was before Harry knew he would be physically unable to sleep on his own.

“What happened to not seeing each other until we meet in front of the altar?” Harry asks, because, sometimes, it’s best to look the gift horse in the mouth — just think what it could have meant for Troy.

“Technically —” Draco says as he climbs into bed next to Harry, “— we aren’t breaking any rules here. I don’t know about you, but I see nothing at all.”

Harry doesn’t need to see Draco to know that he is smirking, pleased with himself and aiming to impress. And impress he did, Harry’s brilliant, devious husband.

“No, me neither, nothing but pitch-black darkness.” Harry reaches out for Draco, pulls him closer under the blankets.

After only a bit shuffling (they are used to this, after all; though, they usually have more light to arrange limbs and pillows to everyone’s satisfaction), they lay snug against each other, hands and feet entangled, noses almost touching. They should be able to see each other, at least a little bit, but Grimmauld is overprotective, and so they really do see nothing, at all. It’s not as good as being able to see Draco, looking into his eyes and seeing his hair loose and dishevelled, but Harry can’t deny that the darkness lends the moment a certain significance, a weight to embody the importance of it.

With Draco here with him, where he belongs, Harry is sure he can go to sleep. And, then, in a moment or two, it will be their wedding day, waiting with more, unforeseen catastrophes and embarrassing toasts, invasive questions and photographers lurking everywhere. More importantly, this is the day Draco has spent the last several months meticulously planning and preparing. Harry will see him smile and laugh and dance with him, will cut the cake and throw flowers, and they will make everyone envious, shoving their happiness down their throats and being sickeningly in love. 

Harry can’t wait.

“Are you sure you want to marry me?” Draco has made it a habit of asking Harry if he is sure, if this is honestly what he wants, and if he is serious when he says Draco can plan whatever he wants as long as they are married at the end of the day.

“I have never been so sure of anything in my life,” Harry answers, as has become _his_ habit, and he lays a gentle kiss on Draco’s forehead.

Well, he _tries_. He is pretty sure the kiss lands on Draco’s ear, but it’s hard to tell in the darkness and over Draco’s soft laughter. No matter — Harry has absolutely no problem raining kisses onto Draco until he finds his forehead, possibly even longer.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please support the author by clicking on the kudos button and leaving a comment below! ♥


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